Plague and Pestilence
by Fangworthy
Summary: A mysterious, incurable virus ravages Europe. Harry's fear begins when he wakes up alone, sure that he is the sole survivor. His terror begins when he realizes that he isn't. Violence, gore, graphic depictions of disease/death, eventual HP/LV slash
1. Hide and Seek

**Title:** Plague and Pestilence  
**Author:** Fangworthy (formerly Seventh Pathogen)

**Rating:** M (Mature) / R.  
**Summary:** A mysterious, incurable virus ravages Europe. Harry's fear begins when he wakes up alone, sure that he is the sole survivor. His terror begins when he realizes that he isn't.  
**Warnings:**Graphic violence (I'm not just saying this for the sake of saying it!), detailed depictions of disease/resulting death. Abundance of character death! AU-ness, eventual spoilers through DH. SLASH! Eventual HP/LV (Harry/Voldemort). Violent!Harry.

**Notes/Disclaimwhore:**Plot bunny provided by Danny Boyle's world of 28 Days Later. (Did anyone else ever notice that all of really shitty stuff happens in London?) Storyline and events inspired by the work of Richard Preston and the autobiography of C.J. Peters. None of the characters in this fic are mine—Harry Potter and the rest all belong to J.K. Rowling. I own none of it! If I did, I wouldn't be living in my mother's basement.

"_One of life's primal situations; the game of __**hide and seek**__. Oh, the delicious thrill of hiding while the others come looking for you, the delicious terror of being discovered, but what panic when, after a long search, the others abandon you!"_

_Jean Baudrillard_

**Chapter 1: Hide and Seek**

The ceiling was sloped, a texturized ivory. I couldn't very well recognize it, but I also couldn't remember being anywhere other than the Dursley's all summer.

Yes, the Dursleys'. that must be it. I'm still at the Dursleys'. On….the floor?

I _could_ be at the Burrow, I thought for a moment.

But then again, there was a distinct lack of noise-of any sort at all, really-so that was definitely out of the question.

And my head was throbbing, and my entire body ached, every joint crying out in protest at the slightest movement. I didn't even have to turn my head to see my arm; it was twisted backwards from my elbow. Broken.

I tried to lift my head off the hardwood floor just a bit, to maybe get a glimpse of one of my relatives who might have seen whatever had happened to get me into my current position, or find out where I had perhaps dropped my glasses (I must have dropped them when I... fell? Maybe? Did Dudley punch me out?).

My hair was encrusted to the floor, more than a few hairs being ripped from my scalp in the process of straining my neck, and... oh, Gods, I couldn't believe the raspy croaking coming from my mouth could possibly be _my_ breathing. Everything in my mind seemed so far away, any attempt I made to remember what the hell had happened just slipped away.

I shakily lifted my good arm (the left one-oh, bollocks, where the hell was my wand, anyway?) and felt around the back of my ear, touching a sticky mass of goo; black, foul-smelling blood covered my hand. The infected spot protested with a horrid sting, and I rolled myself onto my side so I didn't have to lie on the back of my head.

"What happened…?" I choked out to no one in particular. I was hoping that Dudley, or Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia (or even Aunt Marge would have been fine at this point, honestly) would poke their head around the corner and scold me for being such a stupid, clumsy idiot-maybe I had just tripped, right? Dropped something? Got a good sock in the jaw from Dudley for using his things when he was out?

I did, didn't I...? Hello...?

No one was home, and I suddenly realized that no one ever would be. No sounds of neighbors mowing their front yard. No chirping birds. No babbling news reporters on the telly. The air-conditioning was off; there wasn't even the slightest rushing of air throughout the house. Nothing.

"Dammit," I swore. The entire event came flooding into my memory like it was only yesterday.

Although judging from the dried puddle of blackened blood caked tellingly on the floor, it most fucking obviously wasn't yesterday.

The front door slammed, rattling the walls and making both of my parents look rather confused and annoyed in their picture frame, which nearly jiggled right on off the night table. Hedwig gave an indignant screech and ruffled her feathers, tucking her head under her wing and going back to her nap.

I scowled and looked up from the article I was reading. Vernon was home early; oh, goody.

"PETUNIA!" My Uncle's shriek trembled with panic; I put down the copy of the Daily Prophet I was reading (whatever it was, it couldn't possibly be any more boring than reading about another run-of-the-mill Death Eater raid, whatever it was) and crept over to the door, putting my ear at the crack of the door. Vernon? Panicked? I just _had_ to hear this. It could actually be something interesting, for once.

Not that it was really necessary, because Uncle Vernon continued to yowl like a sissy girl.

"Goodness gracious, Vernon! W-what's the matter? Is it Harry? Has he done something?" My Aunt demanded.

Go and figure she'd blame whatever it was on me before my Uncle even opened his mouth.

"N-no! I-It... just...! Never mind, NEVER MIND!" He spat horrifically. "Go and fetch Dudley! Pack your bags! EVERYTHING YOU CAN CARRY! Dudley's bag, too! And some food, everything canned, from the kitchen! Quickly, QUICKLY! We—have-to-bloody-hurry!"

"V-vernon!" Petunia demanded. "What's gotten into you? What on earth are you talking about, pack our bags?"

"I don't have any time to explain! They'll be here soon, it's spreading too fast! They've already taken half of London! The office is overrun! No one will be left alive! We must leave immediately!" Uncle Vernon was now shrieking at the top of his lungs, and I could have sworn the sound of him shitting himself was audible.

"What's spreading? Who will be here soon?"

Perfect timing. I heard my fat cousin galumph in from the TV room as fast as I presumed his stumpy legs could carry him, and whine something inaudibly to my Aunt and Uncle.

"T-there's what on the news, Duddykins?"

"See! SEE! I told you," my Uncle insisted, "we have to hurry! It's them, THEM!"

"I'm not leaving this house until you tell me what's going on, Vernon Dursley!" My aunt yelled. My cousin whined a bit more (although on second thought, he was most probably crying after Uncle Vernon's first outburst, which quite frankly even sort of scared the hell out of _me_.)

"WE HAVE TO LEAVE—THIS-INSTANT or we'll all DIE! DIE, I tell you!"

I heard some more mumbling, then my cousin giving a deplorable melodramatic cry as someone had turned up the volume on the telly downstairs. I couldn't hear a thing, and although I would have turned on the news myself if I actually had access to it, their silence was far more shocking than anything I'm sure I would have heard from a reporter.

"Oh dear God, Vernon..."

A terrified scream replaced the inaudible murmur of the reporter. Then there was static.

"I think it's time turn off the telly, Dudley. Go on, now, upstairs... packing." Well, there's a phrase I didn't think I'd ever live to hear! Turn the thing off... hah!

"Petunia!"

"Y-yes?"

"Food. All of it... as much as you can carry! Go, GO!"

I stepped back from my door and flopped casually back onto the bed the second I heard two pairs of feet pounding up the stairs, and a set of high heels clicking off into the kitchen. The last thing I wanted was to be in front of my door when it was sure to come bursting open moments later.

Although oddly enough, it never did.

Neither Vernon nor Dudley uttered a word, or even knocked on the door, or yelled for me. But I could hear the banging of suitcases being pulled off of shelves, drawers slamming shut and panicked sobs coming from my cousin's room next door.

What the bloody hell was going on, anyway? At that point, I more or less figured Vernon must have made some sort of illegitimate deal on quasi-legal power drills with a wealthy mob boss who was now shooting up downtown or something.

Or we were fleeing from the law and I was most definitely being left behind.

Or perhaps Voldemort had finally gotten tired of looking for me and decided to cover all his bases by burning half the country to the ground.

I could feel a twinge of anger begin to build in the pit of my stomach (not that this was a rare occurrence with my relatives). What was so damned important that they had to flee the house without saying so much as a word to me?

What, did they think they were just going to leave me there alone, to fend for myself? I'd be damned if they thought they could get away with abandoning me, simply getting rid of me by leaving me behind in the middle of an emergency!

By this point, I was half expecting Dumbledore and the rest of the Order to come bursting in to rescue me. After all, they seemed to show up in far less pressing circumstances... so where the hell were they all? It was unlike the Headmaster to leave his secret weapon against Voldemort stranded in the middle of a Muggle World crisis. Wasn't it?

What on _earth_ could possibly be going on out there, anyway? Even the worst of the Death Eater raids had never sounded _this_ bad.

I felt a spark of panic ignite in my stomach. Were they really going to leave me alone here? What if there really was something out there? Surely Dumbledore and the others would arrive in time, wouldn't they? Did they know what was going on out there…?

I threw the bedroom door open and stamped into my cousin's room, where he was frantically throwing various articles of clothing, video games and half-eaten boxes of sweets into a stack of luggage on his bed.

"What the hell is going on in here?" I demanded to the back of Dudley's fat head. "What's with all the packing? Where are you all off to?"

He turned momentarily, looking profoundly shocked and outraged, and grabbed the front of my shirt collar. "Get out, Potter! I'm not letting you put any of your freak rubbish in my bag! Get your own!"

"I-I don't want your stupid suitcase, Dudley... Just tell me what the bloody hell is going on!"

"I'm obviously packing, Potter, or does that stupid-looking scar make you slow in the head, too?" He let go of the front of my shirt, making me painfully aware that he had picked me up several inches off the ground; I nearly stumbled backwards out the door, then scrambled to get back to my own room.

Whatever the hell was going on, I wasn't going to stand by and let them get away with abandoning me in, well...whatever kind of crisis was happening, if it was so fucking horrible that they all needed to pack up everything and leave.

I snatched the photograph of my parents off the dresser, followed by a couple of books that had been strewn out and forgotten on the floor. I hadn't any clothes of my own to pack, but I opened the old wardrobe that I had used for storage and grabbed a couple of the old, over-sized moth-eaten coats and shirts (that had no doubt once belonged to Dudley) hanging inside. I wasn't sure where we were off to; best I be prepared.

I glanced over at Hedwig's cage. She was watching me curiously from her perch, and seemed quite confused at all the ruckus. I suddenly felt my heart sink; in all the ruckus, I nearly forgot all about her. And my Aunt and Uncle…. I knew quite well they'd never let me take her, would they?

"I don't think I'll be coming back for a while, Hedwig."

She looked at me sadly and hooted, fluttering her wings.

"I don't know where we're off to, so... go hang out at Ron's for a while, OK? I'm sure I'll be there within the week anyway." I opened her cage and moved it in front of the open window; she hopped out and perched on the window sill.

"Try to enjoy yourself... just be careful, alright?" I stroked her feathers, and she nibbled my finger affectionately. She turned and swooped out the window, over the houses across the street and out of sight. I sighed, and tried not to think about how long it'd be until I'd see Hedwig, or even Ron and the rest of the Weasleys again.

I shrunk the cage and piled it into the trunk, slamming the lid and latching it. Shrinking the trunk, I stuffed it into my left pocket and put my wand in my right; I had a feeling I would need it soon anyway

I scrambled across the room and threw the door open; I could already hear Dudley's suitcase clunking down the stairs.

I wasn't going to be left behind.

A beefy hand caught me mid-step and pushed me back roughly by the shoulder. My Uncle stood in the doorway, purple-faced in his golf hat, wearing several layers of shirts and sweaters, his and Aunt Petunia's beaten leather suitcases clutched ham-handedly in his other fat fist.

"And just where do you think you're going, boy?" he spat in my face.

"Well, I—uh, I heard all the commotion downstairs, and I figured I should pack up quickly so I don-"

"And where exactly did you get the bright idea that you were invited to go along?"

"Well sir, I just thought that it sounded like an emergency, and maybe I should come alo-"

"Ahh, yes!" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "An emergency! And you just thought you'd drag yourself along and use up all of _my_ family's supplies, burden _us_ until the rest of you little freaks get the chance to attack, right?"

"U-us, attack? What are you talking about? Of course not! I don't even know what you're on about, using up all of yo-" He poked me violently in the chest several times, and I backed into my room to escape the force.

"Like hell you don't, boy!" he bellowed. "It's just typical of ungrateful little hooligan like you to think you're entitled to everything! BUT NOT THIS TIME! Ohh, no! I'm not letting you and your freaky friends put my family in danger this time! We're going to take action! Oh, and I _know_ that _your _kind is behind it, Potter, so don't even try and deny it! You and your little freak clan did this, and you knew about it the whole time!"

"Did WHAT? I haven't done anything! I've been sitting inside all summer!"

He lunged forward and poked me again. "I don't want to hear your excuses! You are not welcome among my family anymore, Potter, so just go find your own way out!"

I ducked under my uncle's arm, fully intending to charge past him and down the stairs. I'd fly away, that's what I'd do! I'd go to The Burrow, and I'd be safe there for the rest of the summer, Muggle World emergencies be damned.

But then he grabbed the back of my shirt and yanked me back into the room. My head cracked painfully with the doorframe, and he struggled to push me back inside. "Oh NO, you don't! Get back in there, boy!"

I scrambled and pushed him away, grabbed at the door handle to pull myself up—almost free...!

I dashed for the stairs, but he blocked me, and shoved me back again, seizing me violently by the throat, his sausage-like fingers nearly crushing my windpipe.

I grabbed his fat arm and tried to push him off; I kicked my legs helplessly, hoping I'd make contact with a shin or his groin, at least get him down long enough for me to make a run for it.

I could feel the stair rail digging into my back, bruising my spine. I pushed against his fat gut, thrashing my legs every which way, just trying to get him to step back so I could run...

But I lost my balance, and I felt the stair rail slip and slide away from my back. I felt Uncle Vernon's fingers tighten around my neck and then let go, and I suddenly realized that there was nothing below to catch me.

A feeling a weightlessness gripped my stomach as my Uncle's shocked face fell away from me.

The entire world went pitch black the moment the back of my head smashed against the wooden floor.


	2. Fear is a Freedom

**Title: **Plague and Pestilence  
**Author: **Fangworthy (formerly Seventh Pathogen)  
**Rating: **M (Mature) / R.  
**Summary: **A mysterious, incurable virus ravages Europe. Harry's fear begins when he wakes up alone, sure that he is the sole survivor. His terror begins when he realizes that he isn't.  
**Warnings: **Graphic violence (I'm not just saying this for the sake of saying it!), detailed depictions of disease/resulting death. Extreme abundance of character death! Eventual spoilers through DH. SLASH! Eventual HP/LV (Harry/Voldemort). Violent!Harry.

**Notes/Disclaimer: **I own nothing but the clothes on my back! And this laptop. I really do need the laptop to write, but I guess I could still continue if I somehow lost my clothes... let the naked fic-writing commence!

"_Ultimately we know deeply that the other side of every __**fear is a freedom**__." _

_Marilyn Furgeson_

**Chapter 2:**

**Fear is a Freedom**

Something like panic gripped my stomach and twisted, making me feel like I had to vomit. The Dursley's were gone; they had left me. They had left me bleeding and unconscious on the floor while they ran and saved their own sorry arses. I was lying on the floor for days...? Weeks...? No one came. No one came to rescue me. The Order never showed up; no one came to save me, to take me away...

From what?

The thought shot through my brain like a bolt—whatever they were running from, whatever it had been that it was so god-damned important that they get away from, could still be out there.

It was then that I noticed the deathly silence all around me. There were no voices or footsteps to be heard anywhere in the house. No Hedwig hooting in her cage, no birds singing in the garden, no neighbors mowing their front yards. There wasn't even the hum of the air conditioning in the summer heat, no cool rush of breeze in the vents. This time I did vomit, all over the floor by the stairs, green bile dribbling forth from my mouth and burning my throat. When had I last eaten?

Was it even safe to talk? What had happened while I was out that shocked the world into dead silence? I began to wonder how many people had fled, and where they could have fled to. Surely the Muggle military would take care of any normal national catastrophe... So perhaps they were all off in a bunker somewhere, or being held in a refugee camp? Could there have been a war? A bombing?

But Uncle Vernon said "they" were coming. Were we being invaded?

I suddenly scowled. Invasion, hmm? Maybe I hadn't been so far off when I thought that the Death Eaters launched a large-scale attack on Muggle London. It would surely make sense, although there certainly hadn't been much warning. And my scar hadn't burned at all before the Dursley's fled.

So it could have been Voldemort! It had to be Voldemort, it _always_ was. Of course he wouldn't have fled—he'd still be around, looking for me. But I was safe where I was, presumably, warded against intruders as a result of my family's protection—Dumbledore has assured me that much.

But no, Dumbledore had never shown up! The Order didn't come! They wouldn't leave me here while London was being attacked, would they...?

No. No! Dumbledore wouldn't leave me here. Dumbledore wouldn't do that to me! He would have rescued me if he could. Something must have happened to him and the Order that prevented them from getting here. They must have been evacuated, with the others... they were off somewhere else, safe...

I suddenly felt sick again when I remembered I had sent Hedwig away. Even if they were safe, I had no way to contact them. Even if I couldn't send them a letter, using a telephone would be out of the question as well, since I didn't even know where everyone was being held. That is, if there had actually _been_ an evacuation. Perhaps they had tried to contact me? Hope began to stir in me, and I looked excitedly towards the staircase. Dumbledore must have contacted me! He owled me, and I just didn't get the letter because I'd been unconscious! He must have!

My first instinct was to jump to my feet and run like a madman up the stairs to my room. The moment I moved my leg, my knees gave a protesting crack and I realized just how sore my joints were. I looked down and my body and realized just how many bruises I had. My arms were completely covered, and my jaw felt swollen... looking at my twisted right arm just about made me vomit again. The entire joint was black and blue, and my entire arm was bent backward right above the joint; it was stiff and unmovable, the lumpy clot holding the broken bone permanently out of place.

Well, even if I could find my wand, it's not like it would do me a bit of good anyway. (Vernon the nasty old sod must've stolen it to ensure I wouldn't do any more damage after I woke up. If I'd my wand, I'd have killed the filthy bugger the moment I set my eyes on him...)

I used my left arm to push myself back to my feet, my ankles slipping out from under me a couple times before I was able to stand up. I felt the blood rush away from my head, and I grabbed onto one of the tables in the entryway to keep myself standing as my head pounded. I didn't bother to poke at the hole in the back of my head anymore, but I knew I had probably reopened the wound; I could feel the fresh blood leaking down the back of my neck.

The stairs were an entirely new and interesting obstacle; they seemed much higher than I remembered. I scowled. I'd have Vernon's head, by God, if I ever got out of that place...

The upper floor of the house remained untouched, everything sitting just as it was right before I fell. My Aunt and Uncle's bedroom door was closed, as was Dudley's. Mine, however, was wide open, and as I stepped closer, I could feel the faintest hint of breeze drifting out, making me aware of just how hot it was inside the little house.

I stopped at the door and looked inside; my body froze, and I didn't dare to breathe. There was a large, gaping hole in the glass; bloody shards were strewn all over the floor, as though something had come crashing through the window. As a matter of fact, it had: On the desk was a tiny, gray owl; he lay on his back, dead, mangled wings spread out with its tiny claws curled in the air; fluids had seeped out around him and stuck to the few papers still lying about. The poor little bugger came crashing through the window, no doubt, in quite a frenzy if the scene were anything to tell by. He still had bits of glass stuck in and to him, and the room reeked of rotten flesh.

But the small scroll tied to one of his feet drew me across the room... a letter! I batted the swarming flies away from the site and carefully wiggled the small burden from the poor creature's leg. I felt guilty relieving it of its burden, as it had clearly given its life to make the delivery.

My breathing was shallow and unsteady as I fumbled with the small scroll. The scroll looked very dirty, as though it had been thrown in the mud. I scowled; there were fingerprints. No... no, not dirt. Blood. Tears filled up my eyes as I finally flattened the small piece of parchment with my good hand, and I recognized Ron's frantic scrawl.

**If you wake up**

**Don't come looking for us**

**save yourself**

As tempted as I was to defy Ron's orders and rescue them anyway, it probably wasn't a good idea... I mean, bloody hell, I didn't even know _what _was out there. I hadn't an owl to contact Dumbledore or the rest of the Order, and it was now clear that no one would be showing up to rescue me.

But where would a bunch of Wizards go into hiding? Hogwarts was one place I could look; enough Wizards certainly knew where it was, and the Wards were strong enough to hold off most of the effects of any natural disasters I could think of. I mean, I guess Hagrid always said it was the safest place in the world and all...

But what about the Death Eaters? If it was their fault all of this was going on, then why hadn't they come to burn the house down with me in it? Attack me while I was unconscious or something? Oh bloody hell, the more I thought about it, it really didn't make any sense at all! So much for reasoning, I guess. And... well, what if it _hadn't _been the Death Eaters? Where were Voldemort and all of his cronies hiding out now? Oh, bollocks, all of this thinking was giving me a headache...

At any rate, the entire situation didn't look good either way. The only other safe places I could think to check were Diagon Alley and maybe the Ministry of Magic. I frowned... at any rate, I still had a little problem. Hogwarts was about 400 miles away, which meant that if I started walking now, I might be able to get there in about a month. If I was lucky.

Well, I was officially buggered unless I could somehow get to downtown London. If I got that far, I could try to Floo into Hogwarts, or send an owl for help... although that still wouldn't solve my inevitable food and shelter issues. Oh well. I suppose I could stay at the Leaky Cauldron until I figured out what had happened with the Order, and I could get myself a temporary wand... err, assuming I'd ever be able to recover my old one, that is...

It was a relief to shift into action, to finally leave that cursed house. My wand was gone, and Uncle Vernon had probably swiped it, and probably proceeded to snap it in half when he fled with the rest of my relatives. My trunk was still in my pocket, although that wouldn't do me much good without a wand. So escape by broom was also out. I looked down at my aching legs and scowled again, which I seemed to be doing an awful lot today.

London was a good 30 miles away, but if I could find my way back to the A3 motorway, I could walk it.

It was a shock to see the sun again. How long'd it been since I was outside? I shielded my eyes and stepped out onto the porch.

A strong sense of doom overcame me when I stepped out onto the front porch. I almost stepped back in, except that if I had, I doubt I'd ever have the courage to leave again.

There were no voices, no neighbors working in the gardens, and no children playing. Bits of trash, plastic and glass lined the gutters, completely stationary. The breeze seemed to halt.

The entire earth was holding its breath in anticipation.

I stepped out onto the driveway; cars still stood on the driveways and in the garages, all left wide open, as were the neighbor's doors. An open suitcase was laying flung open, forgotten on the next door neighbor's driveway, clothes and personal mementos strewn and broken all over the pavement. Rotten food and empty boxes were scattered about as well, some torn open as if they had long since been scavenged from.

Images of imperial concave spaceships with tractor beams, and crowds of sickly-looking people being ordered onto trains by men in military uniforms filled my mind.

I wondered how long it would be before they came looking for me. Until then, I was completely alone, and unsure if I should consider it a blessing or a curse.

For the moment however, I decided to think of it as the former as I made my way into London. At least no one was after me at the moment, as far as I could see. I frowned; the sun was already high in the sky, and if I wanted to make it into the city by nightfall, then I'd have to move quickly.

I walked down the driveway and looked down the street; not that I'd miss it much of course, but this _would_ probably be the last time I'd be seeing it. At least for a while, anyway.

And then I looked in the other direction, London suddenly seeming much further away than I originally thought. I couldn't even see the outline of the metropolitan skyline in the distance. I was suddenly more aware than ever of my aching joints and my crippled right arm. Never mind the festering gash in the back of my head.

I had to walk to London.

Goddamn it.

But then I looked down at the street and saw my glorious salvation, my sole deliverance from pain and suffering.

There in the street, lying on its side as though it had been waiting for me to come and pluck it up, was a small pink-and-red girls' bicycle. It had pink rims with a matching velvet seat cover, and white floral effigies on the gears and training wheels. Metallic pink and purple streamers adorned the handlebars; rather fitting royal banners to announce the arrival of the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Suffer.

In my mind, I was weighing the option of walking the thirty miles versus riding the flamboyant miniature.

"Get on the bike, you stupid git," my throbbing joints screamed at me. I nodded to no one in particular, although in the back of my mind I wondered if there was—or even if I had the _time—_to find a less embarrassing mode of transportation. It wasn't as if I could just hotwire a car and drive myself there, after all.

Even I had to admit, my right knee had a very good point.

I silently thanked the little girl who had abandoned it in the street in the midst of the prior crisis, wondering if my blow to the head had finally knocked me off my trolley. Not that it really mattered, I suppose. Can you really be bonkers without any normal people around to use as a point of reference?

Oh well. It looked like walking was officially out. The infamous Harry Potter would be traveling to London in style.

And as I started teetering down the street on my little bicycle, I thought of Ron's blood-stained note and the mangy dead owl sprawled on my desk. It wasn't much, but it was a sign—a small one—that someone could be out there looking for me. Ron's note also confirmed what I had somehow already suspected. Whatever was outside had spread to other parts of the country as well; and for all I knew, whatever had attacked could very well still be waiting.


	3. Monstrous and Empty

**Title: **Plague and Pestilence  
**Author: **Fangworthy (formerly Seventh Pathogen)  
**Rating: **M / R (For bloody stuff, at the moment)  
**Warnings: ** This story will contain SLASH/yaoi/male x male relationships. Harry/Voldemort. There will be blood, gore, and detailed depictions of people suffering from violence/disease; please do not take this warning lightly, since it will probably get worse at the story progresses. Questions/Comments/Flames? All are welcome.

**Disclaimer: **I wrote you a disclaimer poem!

Much to my distress,  
Despite my blubbering and howling,  
I don't own Harry Potter  
'Cause I'm not J.K. Rowling.

"_Fate – __**monstrous and empty**__,_

_you whirling wheel,_

_you are malevolent,_

_well-being is vain_

_and always fades to nothing."_

_- O Fortuna, The Carmina Burana_

**Chapter 3: **

**Monstrous and Empty**

Who would've thought that a girls' bike would be such a goddamn pain in the arse. Literally! I had been riding for about four and a half hours, and more than feeling terribly violated by the little velvety seat, peddling a small bicycle was surprisingly tiring. The first thirty minutes or so had been wonderful since I hadn't stretched in a while, but now my bones were aching in entirely new places; my knees hurt from occasionally hitting the handlebars, and my left hand was all nasty and sweaty from gripping the handle for so long. My shoulder was terribly sore as well, but my right arm was frozen in too much of an awkward position to get a proper grip. I imagine that I must have looked like some sort of side-show clown or an escaped mental patient with a pink bicycle fetish. I began feeling grateful that no one else was around to see me peddling down the road.

The A3 was, for the most part, easy to traverse. Not because the bicycle was an unbelievably smooth ride though, but because there **weren't** any cars on the road at all.

Now, I suppose when I say there were no cars, that would be a lie. There were plenty of cars; it's just that none of them were moving. Like the cars I passed back in Little Whinging, every single motor vehicle I passed was abandoned. Some had doors that were left wide open, with dents and scrapes as though they had just come out of some sort of demolition derby. Many of the windows were broken or cracked, and more often than not, they were splashed with blood on one or both sides, an active barrier between what was surely some sort of horrid and violent struggle.

The entire highway had the appearance of being the previous location of a massive motor-vehicle fight-to-the-death, and the losers had all mysteriously vanished.

I was so happy to see the freeway exit to London and the buildings rising in the distance that I almost felt like smiling. The skyline was bathed in a ghostly orange haze, a bit of smoke still billowing from the top of one of the buildings; some of them had been burned, all twisted metal skeletons, stretching upward.

I never thought I'd be so happy to be peddling into downtown London! (Then again, at that point, I really hadn't considered **anything **involving stealing a little girl's bicycle, so that really isn't a fair statement at all.) The sun was already sinking lower into the sky, and I had perhaps only a few hours left before the sun would set. Really, I suppose it wouldn't matter all that much if the sun set while I was still out, but something seemed kind of eerie about being out in the dark all alone, so I picked up my pace and hoped that I could peddle to the Leaky Cauldron before nightfall.

Much as I suspected, the city was deserted. All the signs of evacuation were still present—the trash along the side of the road, abandoned belongings, and even a few overturned vehicles, sans passengers. I still saw neither hide nor hair of any other living person, let alone any evidence that anyone had tried to reach out...

…Until I reached Leicester Square. I was so close to the Leaky Cauldron, I wasn't sure why I stopped, but I just had to go look at it...

There in Square was a billboard erected against an old magazine stand, just outside the theater. I'd never been through any sort of national disaster before, but I recognized what it was. It was a survivors' board, like something out of one of those survival adventure films. I stepped off my bike for a better look, and as I stepped closer, I noticed that not only was the billboard covered, but the surrounding windows and shops.

Taped to the front were worn, water-stained pieces of paper with countless names and numbers on them. Some had notes, and others just lists of names with bold, red letters: "WE'RE HERE". There were family photos and school pictures of young children, boasting bold print inquiries as to their whereabouts. As I looked at the board, I could almost feel the fear and desperation dripping from the letters. "HAVE YOU SEEN ME?" Bits of string, key chains and personal items adorned some of the flyers. A wreath of dead flowers framed a picture of a young boy. Other's merely informed: "HE'S DEAD". In fact, many of the photos had the words "dead" or "deceased" scrawled in the corner, in entirely different handwriting in which the pictures were originally written on; I wondered for a moment why strangers had bothered to write messages to other survivors, or if their families had ever returned to see them. I know I wouldn't have.

It was probably the saddest place in all of London right then, but the thought still stuck with me: there had been people here! People had been right where I was standing, maybe even recently! There was still a chance that I wasn't alone. There could be others. Although none of the notes had given me any clue at all as to what had caused the sudden evacuation (or rapture—whichever), it was a small sign that there **had **been life.

I was still a good mile away from my intended destination, and after seeing the board, I decided to get off the bike and walk the rest of the way. I seemed to be getting close to the center of something, and if I got lucky, perhaps I'd find someone.

Using my left arm to steer the bike at my side, I walked slowly down the center line of Charing Cross Road, glancing up at each of the high windows above me and hoping for a sign of life—a light, or maybe a bit of movement from an upstairs apartment. But there was nothing. Not a sound in the air.

I stopped in the middle of the road with my bike. "Hello?" I called.

There was no reply.

"Hello? Is anyone here?" I yelled a bit louder this time, up towards the expensive condos on the top floors. I waited for a minute, but no windows opened. No front doors burst open, and no survivors came pouring out to greet me.

I turned around in the opposite direction. Dear God... please... there had to be someone. Someone had to be here.

"HELLO?"

I wasn't alone... I couldn't be the last one!

"HELLO, ANYONE, PLEASE? IS ANYONE OUT THERE?"

If I yelled loud enough, someone would hear me! There had to be at least one left, someone had left all of those notes!

"HELLO!"

No, no... NO! I'm not alone! I'm not the last one! Someone would call back!

"Please... someone answer?" A sense of dread settled over me. "Someone, say something...?"

For a few minutes I just stood there in silence, listening to the deafening sound of nothing and staring toward the rooftops.

Finally, a brief shuffling forced me from my numb stupor. I looked all around for the source of the noise, suddenly alert and on-edge again. And off in a narrow alleyway, there stood a bedraggled old man.

His white hair was caked with blood and grease, his yellowish skin covered in blotches and bruises. He was padding towards me in a slow gait; he looked like he was in his seventies at least and probably had a bum leg. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and a little gray sweater vest...well, I think it was gray. Didn't strike me as odd at first, but the front of his sweater was drenched in black blood and vomit, and his shoulders were shaking something awful. His head and neck lolled painfully to one side, giving him the look of an abused rag doll. The poor sod had probably been living out here all on his own, and he looked hella sick... my first thought was to help him get to a doctor (that is, assuming there still were any around at all...), or at least get him someplace safe and warm where he could be nursed back to health.

I felt a sudden uplifting—there was someone! Someone else! A little old man maybe, but it was a person! Another human survivor! I smiled (or tried to) broadly, and shouted a quick, "Just a moment, let me help you! Wait right there!" to him before I jogged across the street to meet him.

I halted in the middle of the road as the old man's neck snapped up and he looked me squarely in the eyes.

His eyes were a deep ruby red, blood leaking out from the sockets and running down his face like tears, although his expression boasted anything but sadness. His face was dirty and blotched, and as he staggered toward me, he broke forth with a wretched croaking that couldn't have been further from human speech. Blood ran freely from his nose and ears as well, and perhaps most striking of all, his mouth and chin were completely smeared with it, even more blood and bits of vomit dripping from his face as he staggered towards me. An expression of shocked rage was frozen on his wrinkled face.

His arms were outstretched towards me, and somehow, something in me realized why there weren't any more people. Not like me. Only like him.

His body gave a lurch, and with a snarl, he lunged at me, his entire body thrashing.

I turned on my heel with a newly-invented curse word and ran like hell.

I didn't think to try to grab my bike or get back on it as my old sneakers pounded the pavement. I didn't dare turn around; I could hear him gurgling and yelling just yards behind me as the buildings of Charing Cross Road flew by. I didn't even turn around to see if he was gaining on me—I focused ahead, kept my eyes on the target point less than a mile away. I never ran so hard in my life. I couldn't even hear the sound of my own breathing anymore as I pumped my arms, just the snarls of my pursuers... I didn't need to look back to know that there were more. The world behind me became an indiscernible static of snarls, splatters and human roars. I could hear the frantic pounding of no less than ten—maybe more—pairs of legs stampeding behind me, and I didn't dare stop.

I ran until my muscles felt like glue and my heart pumped like acid in my veins. My eyes had been blinded by tears, and I somehow kept breathing through strangled sobs. My reality was now absolute: keep running or die. Make it to the Leaky Cauldron, or you'll be dead for sure. Don't look back or they'll kill you. Life or death, and nothing but absolutes. I didn't have time to think about what would happen if I got to the Leaky Cauldron and discovered no witches or wizards there to help me fend off the mob that was chasing me...

For the first time in my life, I wasn't guaranteed help when I needed it. I had no backup, no alternate plan. Keep running, I told myself. Keep running or you'll die.

I was running out of breath, and I knew I couldn't stay alive forever. But I was so close... the Leaky Cauldron, just there, on the left ahead of me, right in sight...!

But then an ear-splitting whistle went off, and heat bathed the back of my neck as an explosion rocked the buildings. I could hear shards of glass hitting the pavement behind me and roars of agony from the victims. I craned my neck around to see what had happened, and was met with the red eyes of no less than twenty flaming, bloodied berserkers, still writhing and jerking with fury as they ran towards me. I now became aware of what the explosions were—rockets-being launched from the rooftops; olive-drabbed figures in masks ducked behind the walls and out of sight. Military men?

Only now I realized, they weren't shooting at just my pursuers, as a bullet grazed my ear, and several more behind me froze with the force of the impact and dropped to the ground, smoldering on the pavement.

They couldn't tell the difference between the chasers and the chasee, and I was just another target. They thought that I was one of **them.**

"STOP IT!" I yelled at the sky. "I'M NOT ONE OF THEM, DON'T SHOOT!" I dodged another bullet and lunged for the curb, away from the twitching body of a singed, red-eyed woman. "STOP IT, PLEASE HELP ME! PLEASE!"

The ones that were still standing were still very much aware of my presence, and as the bullets flew through the air, blasting large holes in chests and backs and heads, the ones still alive came running at me once again...suddenly I saw a very distinctive lime-green light shoot forth from the gutter just across the street, colliding with one of the monster's backs. He froze instantly and dropped to the ground, dead, an expression of rage permanently frozen on his face.

I think I was a certifiable nutter by that point, but I'd never been so happy to see that Avada Kedavra green in my life. Dear God, I wasn't the last wizard! Someone—some **wizard**—was trying to help me. Someone was on my side!

"Hey! HEY!" I yelled across the battlefield. "I'm here! I'm over here, don't shoot! I'm one of you!" I jumped up, nearly avoiding a few more flying bullets in the process, and made a mad dash for the other side of the road, watching as a group of two more glowed purple for a moment before both of their heads popped clear off at the jaw and disappeared, a fountain of blood spraying from their bare necks as they both crumpled to the ground in mid-leap. A few more around them were thrown back or frozen by jets of bright light, and I wondered how many how survivors there were...

I was too focused on running to safety to notice the nasty puddle seeping out from the street drain, and felt my foot lose traction as my shoe went sliding through the mud. I felt the pavement tear through my jeans and then into the skin of my knee as my jaw made hard contact with the pavement, biting down all the way through my bottom lip. I cried out terribly, tears leaking from my eyes once again as I clawed at the curb and scrambled to get back to my feet, working my tooth from my lip and spitting a mouthful of blood into the gutter.

But a hand on the back of my neck pushed my face back down into the muddy water, my glasses knocked off and gurgling for breath as I was forced to drink in the slime. One of them was on top of me now, clawing at the back of my shirt; my collar choked me as he pulled me back, and I kicked frantically, hoping to throw him off for just a second... he was tearing through my clothes, gripping my shoulder and trying to claw away flesh, teeth snapping at my sleeves, and as I finally managed to roll over to push him away, I once again saw the face of the haggard old man, his front side now sticky and dripping with shiny, black-spotted blood, and a gushing hole in his shoulder where a stray bullet failed to take him out.

The look in his eyes told me of the finality—one of us was about to die. This was the end of me.

Just as I knew he was about to lunge at my front side and tear the flesh away from my neck, my body went numb in a flash of red light. I felt the old man's iron grip leave my shoulders, and before I could register my head meeting the street again, everything went dark.

Awake again. Or dead. I suppose I was subconsciously hoping for the latter, but I didn't seem to have much in the way of luck lately.

Well, this ceiling was definitely much uglier than the last one I had woken up underneath, and I thought to myself that if this was indeed the afterlife (as I hoped it was), the decor certainly was a dreadful disappointment. The ceiling was made of rectangular, plaster tile much like the one back in primary school with Dudley, and although all of the lights were off, it was spotted with brown water stains. I now began to wonder where exactly I had ended up, because nowhere in any holy book of any sort did I ever recall reading about a place with ugly, leaky ceilings. Alternately, I had unfortunately survived and was lying injured in another strange building. Regrettably, I was correct.

I wiggled about a bit and found myself more or less immobile; I was wrapped in several layers of blankets, as it appeared, and my head was lying on something warm and soft. My arms were bandaged, and some padding had been wrapped around my leg. I was sure that upon closer inspection I would have found more bodily repairs, but I was quite warm and comfortable and didn't want to move an inch if I didn't have to. A faint golden light flickered across the ceiling tile, and I imagined that candles were probably lit somewhere; all in all, the atmosphere really was enough to make me just want to go back to sleep again.

Bike riding, running from blood-vomiting Londoners, bullet-dodging, and then almost dying... I was bloody exhausted, and felt like I had either been hit by a speeding train or had taken two Potions tests in the same period.

Thinking about potions reminded me of my earlier encounter with the witches/wizards who saved my life out on Charing Cross. I still had no idea who'd transported me here, and busied myself with the task of getting up and about and thanking the people who came to my rescue. With stiffened movements I tried to wriggle free, which wasn't getting me very far with the various bandages and wraps that were obstructing almost every joint I had.

"Stop squirming around before you manage to break something else." A high, irritated voice snapped at me as a pair of bony hands shoved me back down into the nest of blankets. Very familiar bony hands.

A tall, black figure billowed into my vision, candlelight reflecting oddly off his pale, sallow skin; he scowled sourly, his eyes narrowed at me. But unlike the red eyes of my attackers, I had seen these eyes in my nightmares for many years now.

"Voldemort," I hissed. I could feel the look of abject horror freeze upon my face, and the muscles that were still working tensed automatically. The corner of my mind still capable of thinking began to race; Voldemort shot down those people. He brought me here. He treated my wounds... But what did he want with me? More importantly, why wasn't I dead yet?

"I see that what little brain you had to begin with has remained intact."

"But—I—you...and all of those people!" I stumbled for words and my mouth went dry. His expressionless face took on a bemused look, and I knew he was reading my mind; I was about to clamber for my wand, but then I remembered that I hadn't had it since I left the Dursleys'.

"Been wandering about London without your wand, Potter?" He practically hissed at me. "How unfortunate for you that out of all people still alive, it is I that you meet unarmed."

He was mocking me. He was mocking me because I was caught here, unarmed and injured and completely at his mercy. He had seen me lying there, unconscious and vulnerable, and kept me alive to torment me instead of leaving me to die in peace. It was too much to handle. Being abandoned, injured, and then left to the mercy of my enemy...

"You... EVIL BASTARD!" I tore my arms free from my comfy bindings and rolled onto my side, scrambling away from him and recoiling on the tile floor. "THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT! YOURS! YOU and your STUPID Death Eaters did this and I know it! YOU WON'T GET AWAY WITH THIS, THEY'LL FIND YOU and YOU'LL DIE! If I don't get out of this and kill you with my BARE HANDS FIRST!"

He laughed and smirked at me, not moving from the spot where I was lying. "Kill me, Potter? With what? That useless bent twig of an arm, perhaps?"

I was rather aware that I was shaking now, whether with rage or fear I wasn't sure. I realized how vulnerable I was there, sitting on the floor, with no wand and half of my body bandaged like a mummy. Kill him with my bare hands indeed... I prayed he wouldn't move. I prayed he'd keep taunting me, at least long enough for me to get up and run... Maybe they'd kill me quickly if I could make it back outside.

"You know as well as I that you won't be moving anytime soon," dear God, he really could read my thoughts couldn't he? "And as flattered as I am, Potter, I'm afraid that I lack the means to cause a disturbance of this...magnitude." He laughed just to spite me, studying my features.

"No..." I shook my head, my voice like acid. "No! I'm NOT playing these games with you, so don't even try and-"

"You'd do well not to yell. For all we know, more of them could have followed us back. Keep your mouth closed and we both live a lot longer."

I stumbled for a moment as his ruby gaze finally met mine. Something was unmistakably different about his expression, but I wouldn't be falling for his charade that easily. "No. You're lying…" I shook my head and closed my eyes; I wouldn't look at his face. "You know who they are. You sent **them** to kill me, didn't you? You sent them to attack the Muggles...clear everyone else out so you could hunt me down properly!"

"No."

"'No'? What the hell do you mean 'no', do you think I'm stupid?" I spat. "Then perhaps you can tell me how the bloody hell I **did **get here, if it wasn't all YOU!"

"I told you before, I couldn't organize something of this sort in my wildest dreams, Potter! And even if I could, why the hell would I go to the trouble? Kill off an entire country just to get to you? By the Gods, you're self-important…" I heard the exhaustion in his voice, and once again felt a weight hit me; something had gone very terribly wrong, I realized, as I finally looked up at him again and noticed our surroundings. We were sitting in the middle of some sort of shop; behind Voldemort thick blue tarps were duct-taped to the window panes, blocking out all traces of sunlight.

I swallowed, a dangerous question on my lips. "What happened?"

Voldemort twined his neck sideways to look at me with a mix of bewilderment and repulsion. "What do you mean 'what happened', you stupid boy? You know as well as I!"

"That's just the thing! I _don't_. I only just woke up this morning!"

Red eyes bore into me intently. "_Woke up_?"

"Yes, I..." I gaped desperately for the right words, "I guess, maybe...I've sort of been unconscious for a long time, perhaps. I just kind of woke up this morning...and then all of this happened."

"You truly don't remember anything at all?" Voldemort took a few sweeping steps forward and glowered down at me. "The outbreaks? The evacuation? None of it?"

"I don't even know what you're talking about!"

I could feel Voldemort poking at my end of the mental link in frustration, and I knew it was a silent threat of Legilimency if I didn't cooperate.

"I promise, I'm telling the _truth_," I begged. "Go ahead and read my mind, then! I haven't the slightest idea at all what you're going on about! I've been completely out of it!"

Eyes never leaving my own, he swooped down to eye-level and spoke in a harsh whisper, "Then you've been out for more than two weeks. Have you really, boy?"

"Two weeks!" I exclaimed. "I couldn't be! It wasn't that big of a fall, I-"

"A _fall_? From what exactly did you fall, and how?" Voldemort was clearly very suspicious still, as was I. The way I had it figured, Voldemort knew I suspected him of causing the whole event, and he probably believed me to be some sort of spy at Ground Zero from the Order's side. Perhaps both assumptions were ridiculous, but at that point neither of us had a decent explanation, so the games continued. If it was information he wanted, then two could play at that game.

"I'll tell you everything that I remember," I said thoughtfully, "but only if you explain what happened first. I'd feel a lot more comfortable giving my explanation once I know what I'm dealing with."

Our eyes remained locked for a long while, a bit of a staring contest for informational dominance. "Very well," Voldemort ground out irritably, "but when we're through, I will require a full explanation concerning your **unbelievable **ignorance on the matter, and such explanation will cease only when **I **am satisfied with your justification. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

I nodded slowly. He shuddered haughtily, merely humoring me for information's sake.

"Very well," Voldemort began. He shuffled back to his position next to my makeshift cot and swished gracefully to the floor. "It started about two weeks ago. They were first sighted at a park just outside London...the reports were all over the country, but no one realized anything was wrong until the Muggle hospitals were overrun. It was a virus. Or something like a virus, no one really seemed to be sure. But you saw its effects for yourself… that old man that was chasing after you. They all turned.

"By the time anyone thought to check the news, it wasn't on the television anymore... they were running down their streets, and breaking through the doors and windows." There was a distant, sinister look in his eyes, and although his eyes were still on me, he looked like he was gazing at something very far away.

"The Muggles broke through the military checkpoints and within four days quarantine had become useless. Within six days, the few uninfected Muggles still alive had gone into hiding, or fled. Right before the radio station at the Ministry stop broadcasting, there were reports of Infection as far as Wizarding Berlin. That was the last any of us heard."

"The station at the Ministry?" My mind raced back to the evening news show that was often played in the background of the Gryffindor common room during study hours. "The Ministry employees went into hiding too, then?"

Voldemort smirked sadly. "No, Potter, don't be silly... they're all dead, just like the Muggle government leaders are all dead."

"No," I argued, "they can't be! They aren't dead, they're just... gone, ran away to hide or something like that! They'd protect themselves, they'd protect their fellow wizards."

"Don't be foolish!" He snapped at me, red eyes flaring. "Your Muggle-Loving minister might as well have hand-fed every witch and wizard in England to the Infected himself!"

"What are you talking about?"

"A statement was made," Voldemort said, smirking, "via radio, a few days after the outbreak. The great oaf informed the wizarding community that there was nothing to worry about. The Muggle government had the situation under control, or some such rubbish... He placed particular emphasis on the fact that laws could not be broken for the sake of so-called self-defense, and that any witch or wizard who harmed a Muggle under guise of such would be tried for war crimes and sent to Azkaban."

"War crimes? What sort of horse shit is t-"

"I'm getting to it! At any rate," he continued, ignoring my outburst, "at that point in time, many of our kind were thoroughly convinced that all of this mess had been **MY** doing... People were running about claiming that the Muggles were under some sort of Imperius curse en-mass and all sorts of nonsense."

"You couldn't really do that... could you?"

Voldemort's smirk could have fried live animals. "You certainly thought I could, didn't you?"

"Err, well, I-"

"They thought it was all a part of my plan, Potter... anyone who defended themselves and killed an infected Muggle in the process was, just as they said, tried for war crimes and sentenced to the Kiss."

"That's ridiculous!" I exclaimed. "What about the wizards who were killed? Did no one notice?"

Voldemort shrugged. "Not really. You see, there wasn't really any evidence to support that anyone had been killed at all. The Ministry never recovered a single body."

"Then...does that mean those people who were chasing after me...?"

"Of course. The infection doesn't kill. At least, not instantly. You'll suffer plenty first, for weeks perhaps, after you become one of them."

I stared at the floor for a moment, imagining everyone I knew who I thought had survived, joining the bloodied crowd chasing me down Charing Cross... Sirius convulsing, dripping blood from his mouth and nose... Ron with red-encrusted eyes, grabbing at my ankles...

"How many of us are there?" I asked him blankly.

Voldemort must have noticed my stupor, because he spoke softly. "You're the only uninfected wizard I've seen since the Ministry fell."

I lost most awareness of my surroundings, as I replied with a simple "I see".

"Potter?" Voldemort asked. He blinked at me inquisitively.

"No," I shook my head briefly, noticing I'd nearly spaced out for a moment, "I...I-it's nothing."

"It must be quite a bit of nothing, Potter," he said. "You're looking quite pale again. Perhaps you'd like to rest a bit more before we continue?"

Before I got a chance to reply, he swept over to me and fastened his bony hands about my bruised waist. With much more strength than I thought someone of his scrawny size could muster, he picked me up and plopped me back into the little nest of blankets on the floor.

"Are you still in any pain?"

An ironic question coming from a Dark Lord who wants me dead, I thought. "My arm is still hurting me a little," I said honestly.

"I saw the break. I'll have to break it again to fix it, you know. You'd probably rather be put out for that part..."

Voldemort anesthetizing me to break my arm again wasn't really a very comforting thought, especially when there were an unknown number of Infected Zombie Things lurking around all over the place. He seemed to read my mind again though, because he said, "I shall leave that for tomorrow when we're both well-rested again." Well, at least I was guaranteed a good night's sleep before I died.

"I'll give you something to help you sleep," Voldemort stated. "I won't have your midnight screaming fits attracting every Infected person in London."

"Muggle drugs?" I asked, and he nodded simply. Voldemort carrying around Muggle drugs was certainly news to me. But then again, I figured that disaster made people do some odd things. Like riding a girl's pink bicycle. "Well, that'd be alright, I suppose." (Because I'd sooner trust a random prescription pill over a potion from you any day of the week, I thought to myself.)

"Wait here," Voldemort said as he swooped away. I watched him disappear around a high shelf stocked with bags of chips and pretzels. I felt silly as I truly realized for the first time that Voldemort's hideout was actually a Muggle super market. Voldemort had moved everything off of the front shelves and lined the tops with candles of various colors and sizes, probably taken from another shelf somewhere. They were the only source of light in the store, since the windows behind me had been blocked out. It didn't really seem like the kind of place a Dark Lord would pick to hide out in, but it made sense. There would be enough food and supplies to last him a long time, and, I realized, a fully-stocked pharmacy for any emergencies. Potions ingredients might be a little hard to come by for a while, I assumed.

Voldemort had set up several lawn chairs a few yards away, price tags still dangling from the drink-holders, and a few different blankets and a conjured sleeping cot were strewn about the floor nearby: another "bed". He had accumulated a stack of books and magazines on one of the chairs, probably taken from one of the sale racks by the cash register. I wondered how many times he must have read them already. A few cheap blankets and throw pillows were laid upon them as well, a sad attempt at comfort. Enemy or not, I felt a bit guilty for intruding upon his little sanctuary. Although he certainly did deserve the discomfort for trying to kill me repeatedly.

Voldemort reappeared a few moments later with a small, white bottle in his spindly hand. He knelt next to me on the floor, grabbing my wrist, and dumped two of the blue-and-white striped pills into my palm. He pulled a half-empty water bottle out of one of his pockets and tossed it on the blanket next to me.

"It's Propranolol," he said before I could ask. "It will delay the symptoms of post-traumatic shock for a while. You'll be able to forget long enough to get to sleep."

I didn't want to ask him if he was speaking from experience, but the blank look in his eyes told me more than words ever could. Seeing Lord Voldemort of all people traumatized and hiding out in a super market was a little too much for me to process, and I hoped sleep would come quickly.

I took a drink and threw back the pills, too thirsty to stop and consider that it could have been poisoned. He didn't look well enough to be concocting poisons anyway, and I was far too exhausted to care if I was drinking one or not.

I was settling into my cot, hoping the drugs would take effect soon, and I noticed that he had wandered back over to his chair and was flipping through one of his books rather quickly, looking irritated.

"What will we do tomorrow?" I asked.

I knew it was probably a loaded question, but he paused and looked up at me, failing to completely mask his forlorn expression. "The same thing that I do every day," he said firmly. "We shall look for survivors."


	4. What You Leave Behind

**Title: **Plague and Pestilence  
**Author: **Fangworthy

**Rating: **M / R (For bloody stuff, at the moment)  
**Warnings: **This story will contain SLASH/yaoi/male x male relationships. Harry/Voldemort. There will be blood, gore, and detailed depictions of people suffering from violence/disease; please do not take this warning lightly, since it will probably get worse at the story progresses. Questions/Comments/Flames? All are welcome.

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Harry Potter, I would be rich. If I were rich, then I could probably convince the math club president to make out with me again. If that happened, then I wouldn't have enough angst to write this story! (Oh no!) That being said, it's a damn good thing I don't own Harry Potter or anything associated with it.

**"_What you leave behind _**_is not what is engraved in stone monuments,_

_but what is woven into the lives of others."_

_Pericles_

**Chapter 4:**  
**What You Leave Behind**

I didn't want to get up off the floor the next morning, no matter how much the tile was digging into my hip. I opened my eyes and refused to acknowledge that I was really awake, rolling over and pulling the layers of blankets up around my face. I think I might have smiled; how nice it was to sleep with no nightmares! Unfortunately my dreamy state was abruptly broken when something hard and pointy tapped me in the back several times.

I rolled over again and blinked the sleep from my eyes, reaching for my glasses. An extremely cranky-looking Dark Lord was standing over me. He prodded me with his foot a few more times before I acknowledged his presence with a grunt.

"Up!" he snapped. "For Merlin's sake, boy, I've been yelling at you for the past twenty minutes. Are you deaf?"

"What time is it?" I yawned.

"It doesn't matter. It's been light out for almost ten minutes now. We must get moving," he insisted. "I have far too much to do to be spending half my day waiting around for the likes of you."

With that, he threw a bundle of black cloth at my face and paced back over to his lawn chair. I sat up and unfolded the wadded-up heap, identifying a gray t-shirt and a pair of black sweat pants; both still boasted price-tags: "50% off!" I frowned.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Camouflage," Voldemort stated simply. "Hurry up and put it on!" He waved his hands at me hastily and made a face as if I were daft for not realizing that cheap dark clothing constituted camouflage in our situation.

I yanked the tags off of the two articles of clothing, ignoring Voldemort's scowl as I tossed them onto the floor, and pulled off my old, over-sized hand-me-downs, offhandedly hoping that the Dark Lord had the courtesy to look away while I was changing. After I was dressed, he stood up and bodily hauled me off of the floor. I was a little bit dizzy and my body felt strangely light; a side-effect of the medication I took the previous night, no doubt. He stepped back and inspected me, taking special note of the gauze pads taped around my crippled arm, and pulling at the hems of my shirt as if to make sure I had put it on right; I was actually rather glad that he was in too much of a rush to bother with fixing my arm this morning. Honestly, I was still horrified by the idea of being put under, but more than anything I just wanted to avoid any more unnecessary pain.

He was dressed a bit strangely, or at least compared to how I was used to seeing him clothed in my nightmares. He was wearing a black turtleneck shirt and dark slacks under his usual outer robes, which were open and looked rather like a trench coat billowing behind him. There was a cloth roll of something bulky and heavy tied to his back (shrunken, too, judging from the strange little bulges), and perhaps the most striking of all were the black and yellow hiking boots. By Muggle standards he looked quite menacing, although to any normal wizard who was used to encountering him the outfit seemed a bit ridiculous.

"Are we going somewhere in particular?" I asked.

"Exactly where we are going is none of your concern, Potter," he said. "However, I usually spend my mornings on the rooftops a few blocks away from here, at least until the sun is high in the sky."

I rather hoped we weren't going to be doing too much walking. Despite the good night's sleep, I was still physically drained, and I hadn't eaten in, well...I didn't really know how long, although I didn't feel very hungry. A side-effect of shock, I supposed.

"Can we eat something when we get there?"

"We'll see," Voldemort replied curtly. I figured that an indefinite response meant that he at least planned to bring food along—he was just unsure as to whether or not he'd let me have any. I planned to be on my best behavior for the rest of the day and try to stay out of the way.

"We must exit out the back door," he gestured toward the back of the store where a large pile of cardboard boxes, plastic buckets and a few shopping carts had accumulated in the door of a small hallway. "You'll want to hold your nose—I threw all of the meat and dairy out back when it started to go rancid—the smell of it disguises our trail, anyway. And stay behind me."

Before I had an opportunity to ask why we couldn't exit through the front of the store, he had removed the wrapped burden from his back and lifted the strap over my head. The weight pressed down hard into my left shoulder, and I became aware of the stiffness in my limbs from the previous day that still hadn't quite subsided. The package was long and heavy, and I felt several metal poles and other pointed things sticking into my spine. I cringed.

"Why do I have to carry this?" I motioned to the pack with my good arm. "What if we have to take off running or something?"

"Then I certainly hope you've done your morning stretches." Oh, how I hated his wise cracks; maybe I'd just take the whole stupid package off and beat him with it...

"Besides, Potter," he continued, "the least you can do for me at this point is to make yourself useful. You do owe me a life debt, you know."

"Life debt?" I yelled. "For all the attempts you've made on my life so far, I hardly think I owe you a damned thing!"

"What did I tell you about yelling?" He snarled at me. "You'll make yourself useful by carrying my supplies because now there will be two lives to defend. I need my wand arm free...unless, of course, you'd like to die when we walk out that door?"

I opened my mouth to say something, but no reply came. I bit my lip.

"That's what I thought." He flashed me a vitriolic smirk, and by the Gods I just wanted to throttle him to death. "Let's move along, boy. Stay alert and walk behind me."

We stood at the door, and although I probably wouldn't admit it later, I was cowering behind Voldemort, my muscles rigid and shaky. I really didn't want a repeat of the previous day, since said repeat would probably end with me dead.

Voldemort waved his wand at the door, and a heavy padlock fell from a sloppily-installed doorjam and clunked on the tile floor. I heard a shuffling coming from the alley outside, and he turned and cocked his head at me as if to ask "ready?" I didn't answer though, because with not a second to spare he stepped back and slammed the door handle in with his boot, the door crashing against the bricks outside.

The Infected were waiting at the door. A man and a woman, each in a shameless state of undress, lunged at the open doorway, eyes ablaze and mouths dripping with black-flecked blood and offal. The blood froze in my veins and—just for a moment—I thought Voldemort would slam the door and make a run for it.

Before I even noticed I had shut my eyes, I heard the blast and two sickening splats hit the bricks. Shaking violently, I opened my eyes and became aware that I was clinging to the back of the Dark Lord's cloak like a human barnacle. There wasn't much left of the shameless couple save two charred bodies stuck to the wall by their own burnt entrails, their red eyes wide open and fearful, gaping blast marks in the vicinity of where their chests had been.

Voldemort's head snapped around to look at me with a mix of fear and excitement. "What's your problem?" He reached around his back and peeled his cloak away from my trembling grip. "I do this every day, Potter, and that-" he gestured to the messy remains painting the bricks, "-is the least of our worries."

"I...I suppose so," I strained. "It...was worse. Yesterday."

He nodded at me simply and latched onto my arm, pulling me out the door. "Yes, yes," he said hastily. "We have to move. The explosion was loud, and more Infected will be headed this way—where there's one, there are always more... If we hurry, there's a chance the militia men won't be awake yet..."

I struggled to keep up with Voldemort's long strides as we rounded the corner. He gripped my arm tightly in one hand and his wand in the other, ruby gaze darting frantically and observing every tiny detail of the abandoned street. I had to jog to keep up, which hurt even more considering how hungry I was. He dragged me out to the middle of the street, and I didn't recognize where we were anymore.

I pulled back a little against his grip. "Shouldn't we, uhh... you know, keep to the side of the road or something?" I asked breathlessly.

"No," he said tersely. "No one in that damned Muggle militia can shoot straight, so we'll have plenty of warning if bullets start flying. But we must be able to see anyone approach from the side streets! The Infected gather there, and in open buildings. Keep a lookout behind us, boy..."

I tried to nod, but he yanked me ahead violently, breaking into a jog.

"We can't just Apparate or something, can we?"

"No!" Voldemort snapped. "Of course we can't Apparate! What if there are Infected wherever we turn up, hm? Just Apparate ourselves into the middle of a great mess of them, wonderful idea!"

"It was just a suggestion..."

"A damned stupid one, too," he added acidly. "And anyway, why wouldn't I want to kill a few in transit? More dead Infected now are less to worry about later."

I wanted to say something, but I was too winded to manage anything other than a simple "good point."

"Of course it is! Now be quiet... there are usually quite a lot of them swarming about at this hour."

Voldemort glanced from side to side as we ran, panicked, wand arm outstretched purposefully. Despite the fact that we could both die at any moment, he appeared arrogant as usual, seeming more than happy to further indebt an already helpless survivor, and I began to feel very sorry for any other wizards he happened to find wandering around, if there were any at all.

An earsplitting scream shook me out of my musings. My breath froze in my throat as I saw an Infected woman with dark hair throw herself out from between a stack of trash barrels and dash towards us, trailed by two middle-aged men wearing tattered, bloody business suits, who thankfully were a bit slower than their female compatriot.

I could hardly make out her face in the murky light of dawn, but she stared straight at me with an expression of inexplicable rage and agony. The blood dripping from her mouth was shiny and dark, and gooey ropes of hemorrhagic blood and saliva flew from her mouth with each thrash of her neck.

Her eyes tore through me, more accusing and unforgiving than any look the Dark Lord could muster.

He threw a glance at me over his shoulder and stiffened.

"Stay back! On the ground, get down, boy!" He hissed.

It wasn't like I had much of a choice, no matter how afraid I was. I wouldn't have put it past him at that point to leave me standing there to be torn to shreds while he fled to safety. I crouched on the street and watched him, wand at the ready as the three monsters rushed upon us. The screaming, bloodied woman wasn't more than a few meters away when I heard him roar an unfamiliar incantation.

"Detonerum!" In a burst of heat and blue light, the woman in front of Voldemort shook painfully and her body burst apart; I closed my eyes, but not before I saw the two men behind her share her fate, their bodies twisting before they exploded from the inside out, smoking flesh and ash being forced apart violently by some invisible force that welled up within them.

The screaming stopped, and all was quiet, but I didn't move from my place on the ground; I didn't want to see the remains of the three people who had just been blown apart. I heard Voldemort's footsteps and felt a thin hand on my arm. He pulled me up gently but quickly, and searched my face for signs of trauma.

"You're alright." It wasn't a question, but a hopeful statement. I nodded slightly, my eyes never leaving his face; I didn't want to look at the scene around us, although the evidence was scattered around the street; it was raining bits of burnt people.

"Come on." He urged me up by the forearm and I stumbled to my feet. "We have to keep moving. There will be more on the way."

He gripped me tightly and pulled me along; my legs really weren't working properly, and I couldn't tell if it was from shock or hunger anymore.

Voldemort threw a quick _incendio_ over his shoulder to dispose of the remaining evidence as we hustled away from the scene, the smell of burnt flesh becoming fainter as we ran.

Voldemort's "observation deck," as he called it, was a small, rust-stained rooftop that at one time had sported a vegetable garden before he harvested everything edible and threw about forty terracotta pots over the balcony. He pulled the escape ladder up behind us and inspected the ground below to make sure we hadn't been followed. There was no door that led to the roof; only a few smokestacks and vents lined the roof, and some of the bricks that lined the small turrets were coming loose with age.

"Hand me the supplies," he demanded, still winded. He motioned me over to a relatively clean corner and I set the bundle on the ground. He wandlessly untied the bright orange ropes—which may or may not have been magical—unshrunk the lot of it, and started sorting out various poles and sticks and pointed metal things. He set aside a separate package that was much more tightly rolled, and with a moment's pause, pushed it towards me.

"That's the last of the fresh fruit," he said as I dove for the offering of food, and he warned me, "so don't eat all of it! You're not used to eating again, either...don't go making yourself sick."

I nodded and bit into a green apple, too preoccupied with the thought of actually being able to eat to really notice the taste or the texture much at all. I nibbled around the center and finally decided on eating the core as well (waste not, and all that jazz) as I watched Voldemort snap together pieces of wood and metal, which I soon realized were various garden tools and pieces of kitchenware.

"What's all that for?" I asked, wondering what a Dark Lord would be doing with a planting spade.

"Wands can be used for many things," he explained. "But these are weapons, Potter."

"Weapons? Why d'you need...?"

"For killing." He somehow avoided smirking madly and kept his eyes on his work. "There are still a few uninfected wandering about these parts. They came in handy the first few days after the outbreak-" he looked kind of thoughtful for a moment or two, "-so, I suppose I've carried them around out of habit. They could be useful again if we come across any more survivors who need protection."

I was about to object, but he picked up a pick ax and a bloodied metal bat and looked at each of them thoughtfully, then back at me. He seemed to ponder me for a moment, and then set the pick ax on the ground in front of me.

"This one is yours until you can get your wand back. You see the pointed end? That would be the one you hit w-"

"I know how to use it!" I snapped defensively. "I... I just don't think this is right. Killing people with a pick ax, bloody hell..."

Voldemort laughed shrilly and poked me in the chest with his wand. "You had best change your attitude towards killing others, Potter, because I guarantee you that the Infected will have absolutely no qualms whatsoever about killing you in the blink of an eye."

"It doesn't matter," I yelled. "I could never kill someone! They've done nothing, nothing at all to do me harm. They don't know what they're doing, they're sick! It's not their fault—it's the disease that's evil, not them...it just can't be right!"

"Oh, but they will do you harm if you give them the chance! Make no mistake, they don't give a shit if you're the Boy-Who-Lived, and neither would I! When a person gets infected, you have about half a minute to kill them before they kill you. Wizard or not, Potter, if you're stupid enough to get yourself infected, I'm still all for blasting you to bits."

I scowled smugly and slumped against the wall. "I suppose that's it, then?" I grumped. "Just waiting for the chance to kill me then? I'm not stupid, you know... I know things haven't changed, and you're just waiting for the chance!"

"You're a fool, boy," he sighed. "I won't kill you, Potter, not if I can help it. We're the last ones; it would be a fruitless murder."

"What'd you mean 'last ones'?" I scoffed. "You said you look for survivors every day, and you already found one—me!"

"You weren't awake the day the Ministry fell, were you?" he mused. "You wouldn't know. There is no more war, boy. Even when the Infection abates, there won't be another. There's nothing left to fight over. And if there were, being ruler wouldn't mean much when there aren't any people alive who still know you exist, would it?"

"Is that why you rescued me?" I asked. "Just because I was another wizard? So you could continue your almighty reign over the great Harry Potter?"

"Well, I was surprised to find you wandering around, I admit," he shrugged and averted his gaze from the rising sun. "But no, I don't particularly care who you are. Things will be difficult from now on, no matter where we go or who we find. If we both wish to live, we must leave past altercations where they belong."

I nodded. I was utterly shocked about how reasonable he sounded, but I still couldn't help but notice the glint of disappointment in his eyes; his features looked even more marred than the day before, as if all notions of hope and life were slowly leaving his body, and I wondered how long it would be before the same happened to me.

It was quiet for a while then, and I finally took notice of the sun rising over the rooftops, casting a pretty golden haze over the silent city and filling the clouds with bursts of orange and red. I wanted to comment, but I figured that Dark Lords didn't care much for watching sunrises. Suddenly I felt very homesick for Hogwarts, and the thought finally struck me: there would be no more school. No more laughing with Ron and Hermione over meals, if they were even still alive...no more potions with Snape, no tea at Hagrid's cabin, no late-night study sessions in the Gryffindor common room. The note I found yesterday had completely slipped my mind. I wanted to go look for Ron as soon as I could...but we'd encountered five infected just on our way to Voldemort's outpost, and God knows we weren't ready for a rescue mission like that... I sighed, and reminded myself to try and convince Voldemort of it later. One more survivor, after all; he'd like that.

"Say, Harry," the Dark Lord drawled, and I was a little shocked at the use of my first name, "while we're sitting here with nothing to do, I'd like to remind you that you still owe me an explanation of how you got here."

"Oh, right, sorry about that. I guess I forgot in the middle of the ruckus," I said. I wasn't thrilled about recalling the details of my last encounter with the Dursleys, but quite frankly, I owed it to him for taking me in. "Where should I start at?"

"I'd enjoy hearing about how you found yourself in a coma for almost half a month."

"Well," I stalled, thinking of the best way to explain myself, "my Uncle and I got in a fight."

"A fight?" Voldemort sounded surprised. "Why on earth would you pick a fight with that old lard-bucket? He must have pulverized you!"

"I didn't pick a fight with him! Good Merlin, I'm not that thick...," I sighed and massaged my temple; Voldemort appeared to be amusedly awaiting an explanation, clearly quite interested in what I was about to say. "Well," I began again, "I was just kind of sitting around, you know? Reading the Daily Prophet for news, about, well... err, _you_. He just comes home and starts yelling at my aunt and cousin, that they have to pack up and leave right away. I hadn't a clue what was going on, and no one ever stopped once to tell me."

"How could you not know? It was all over the Muggle news!"

"Yeah, well they don't exactly let me lounge around and watch TV, do they?" I snapped. "I don't get out of my room except when they want me to cook or do the housework! Even so, they didn't give enough of a shit to even warn me...I confronted my Uncle about why they were all packing up, and he told me that... I had to stay behind." I tried to hide the disappointment in my voice, which was useless considering I was sitting on a rooftop with a powerful Dark Lord who could invade my mind anytime he wanted.

"They abandoned you!" Voldemort fumed. "Goddamned Muggles, leaving a young wizard in the middle of a pandemic threat! It figures, doesn't it? You can never trust Muggles! They're lucky if they meet their early demise by my wand, I tell you that, Potter! Filthy Muggles, all of them, they-"

"Calm down if you want me to finish my story," I sighed, although he abruptly shut up, still simmering in a boiling pot of pretentious Muggle hate-butter. "I'm not exactly happy about it either, but I'm not going to kill them for it. I tried to reason with him, but I didn't even know what the big problem was. He just kept telling me that 'they' were coming soon... thought the whole thing was my fault, too. It was some 'freaky trick' all the Wizards were playing on them, and I was going to kill all of them, or some sort of rubbish."

"And here you thought it was me!" Voldemort found this quite funny and giggled madly, which was really quite disturbing.

"Err, right... well, I was trying to get downstairs so I could escape, but my Uncle thought I was tagging along to sabotage their rations and kill them off or something,"- Voldemort had another insane giggle fit—"and then I remember struggling with him...we got into a fight, and he choked me. I was right by the stair rail, and... I guess, I just lost my balance. I fell backward from the second floor, over the rail. When I woke up, it was yesterday, I couldn't find my wand, and I discovered everything completely deserted."

"I'd strongly encourage you to get revenge," Voldemort smirked, "but your Muggle family is probably already dead, or Infected."

I knew he was trying to get a sort of rise out of me (you're perceptive to things like this when you've got a mental link with someone), but I shrugged. "I really don't care, to be honest," I said. "I'm just glad that I won't have to see them again. I suppose there's no point being optimistic, but it's the best thing that's happened to me in a long time."

Voldemort continued with a rant about why it was indeed a good thing that the Virus had come, and about how the Muggles had brought it upon themselves because of some strange biological science garbage that I didn't understand; I nodded occasionally, not caring to listen, and then he went silent.

"What's the matter?" I looked up at him, confused.

"Nothing at all," Voldemort replied in an unusually chirpy voice. "I've just realized that I'd almost forgotten to do something. Are you feeling alright at the moment, Harry?"

"Err, I guess. Why d'you ask?"

"Excellent. _Stupefy_!" The strong spell hit me square in the chest and I tipped over. The last thought that went through my mind before I completely lost consciousness was that I really hoped he caught me before I hit the cement.

When I woke up, I was back in my soft cot on the supermarket floor. I wiggled around under the blanket and found that my right arm was completely mobile; the rough, swollen and twisted lump at my elbow was gone, and I could move! I could move both arms! Oh Merlin, it was a great feeling. I pulled my forearms around my body and rubbed the previously mangled skin around my elbow. It was nice to be without aches or pains or disfiguring broken limbs.

An upside-down pair of scarlet eyes met mine, and I blinked up at the Dark Lord.

"So you're finally awake. I would have used a weaker spell if I knew you'd be out this long." He smirked.

"What happened... and what time is it?" I said groggily.

"It's almost five o'clock. I'll make something to eat soon, if you're feeling up to it. Did I do a satisfactory job of fixing your arm, then?"

"Err, yeah... it feels fine, actually. How did we get back?"

"I transported you back here myself, along with the rest of our supplies. You really have no idea how heavy you are when you're trying to fend off a crowd of Infected. So I'm afraid you owe me another one, Potter."

I actually did feel a little bit guilty about leaving him to defend the both of us while I was out, not that I was of much more use when I was awake. I decided that, all in all, today hadn't been quite an unbearable as I expected it to be. At least Voldemort was fighting _with_ me and not _against_ me for once; I decided that maybe having a Dark Lord on my side in the midst of a viral epidemic might not be such a bad thing. "Well, thanks for healing my arm, anyway. It feels completely normal now."

"That's all very well," he applied apathetically, completely ignoring my expression of thanks, "but you'll never make a full physical recovery if you don't maintain proper nutrition and get some extra rest when you can. You'll rest here until it's time to eat."

I had a hard time picturing Voldemort cooking anything at all. I had always assumed he had house elves and Death Eaters who did things that like for him, and I wondered how well he has adjusted to doing things on his own. Although mostly, I was just grateful that he had decided to feed me regularly.

"I'm actually feeling kind of hungry," I commented. "Seems like forever since I had a meal...d'you think the Muggles kept any ground beef around here?"

Voldemort looked disgusted. "Meat?" He shrieked. "Don't be a fool! It all went rotten two weeks ago! Even so, just imagine! Me! Me, eating that foul, greasy slop! Meat, Potter, is made of living things, and living things can contain virus." He was leaning over my bed and poking me in the forehead with a clawed finger, aiming especially for my scar. "If you find any chunks of dead, rotten animal lying around, eat your fill, but don't expect me to come to your rescue when you get Infected like the rest of them!"

"Alright, alright! I get it! Meat is awful and makes you sick and kills you... then what is there left to eat around here?"

"There are still some black beans left, so we will have bean cakes tonight, probably with sweet potatoes…there are quite a lot of those around here. Muggles eat far too many potatoes," he complained.

"Can I sleep until dinner then?" I begged. "I'm still exhausted, and I don't want to get in the way o-"

"Yes, yes," Voldemort dismissed me with a wave of his hand, "I'll wake you up later. Just don't be a bother while I'm working. Clear?"

I nodded my head and yawned widely, a thought suddenly worming its way to the front of my mind. "Oh, yeah, I almost forgot!" I rolled over onto my stomach and fished around for my old jeans, which were in a folded on the floor somewhere. I felt around in my pocket and pulled out the rolled, bloody parchment, my stomach giving a sudden lurch when I once again considered the possible fate of the Weasleys. I swallowed hard, and handed the parchment to Voldemort, who was glaring at me with condescending annoyance.

"It's from my friend, Ron Weasley… I know him from Hogwarts. He and his family…They might be, y'know... alive," I suggested quietly as he thoroughly inspected the scrap of parchment. "I, uh...found his dead owl on my desk yesterday, and he was carrying that note."

Voldemort looked distant and ponderous for a moment, considering the tangible evidence more so than my words. Finally he nodded, and stuffed the parchment into a pocket in his robes.

"Very well," he concluded with an exasperated sigh. "Tomorrow afternoon, we'll start planning an expedition into Ottery St. Catchpole to search for other wizards. However, I must advise that you not get your hopes up, Harry. Your friend Ron is probably dead, as will be his family."

I shook my head. Never mind me how he knew where Ron and his family lived. "You're wrong. They're alive."

Voldemort looked at me with silent contempt, but I could see the disagreement in his scarlet eyes. "Rest, Harry, and I'll wake you when it's time to eat."

I nodded and rolled onto my side as Voldemort swept away to look for food, his flowing cloak ticking my face with a soft breeze. Then I pulled the random blankets up around my face and gave into fatigue, trying not to think any more about Ron, or Hermione, or Hogwarts or anyone else that I once knew. I wanted to be hopeful, but all that I had seen wouldn't allow for it; from then on, it would just be Voldemort and me.


	5. Woe to the Thinker

**Title: **Plague and Pestilence  
**Author: **Fangworthy  
**Rating: **M / R (For blood, disturbing imagery for the moment)  
**Warnings: **This story will contain SLASH/male x male relationships. Harry/Voldemort. There will be blood, gore, and detailed depictions of people suffering from violence/disease; please do not take this warning lightly, since it will probably get worse at the story progresses. Questions/Comments/Flames? All are welcome.  
**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. I suppose you could sue me if you want to, though. You'll get...*looks in wallet* exactly $1.86.

_"Out of damp and gloomy days, out of solitude, out of loveless words directed at us, conclusions grow up in us like fungus: one morning they are there, we know not how, and they gaze upon us, morose and gray. __**Woe to the thinker**__ who is not the gardener but only the soil of the plants that grow in him."_

_Friedrich Nietzsche_

**Chapter 5:  
Woe to the Thinker**

We ate in contemplative silence that night. Voldemort picked at his food and rapped his claws on the chair's armrest, occasionally breaking the silence with another suggestion for the rescue mission we'd begun planning.

"We should use invisibility charms when we near the center of the city. I have no idea how densely populated the area was, and there could be a lot of Infected."

I nodded and replied with a simple "hmm," and swallowed the last bite of bean cake. "Well...I have an invisibility cloak," I commented offhandedly.

Voldemort seemed to ponder this for a moment. "Yes, bring it."

"Err, it's sort of still in my trunk, which is in my pocket, and I don't have my wand-"

"I'll help you unpack in the morning before we leave."

Perhaps it was because of the link we shared, but I noticed a trace of nervousness in his voice. I was scared as well, not only of becoming infected but of not finding any of the Weasleys alive and well. Up to that point I had survived by being hopeful that someone I cared for would be alive and unharmed, and I just wasn't sure what I would do with myself if something happened to my best friend. I shuddered just to think of it; an indeterminate amount of time stuck in a dead city with no one but Lord Voldemort to keep me company. No, Ron had to be alive, for the sake of my sanity.

"I'm going to sleep. Will you wake me up if I sleep in again?" I worded my request carefully; it was obvious he was in a shit mood.

Voldemort was skimming through some discount book with a sour expression and didn't look up or reply. I watched him as I settled under the blankets and wondered if he ever got any sleep. He looked like he had aged considerably since the Department of Mysteries. He had dark circles under his eyes, even more so than usual, which were dull and void of any sign of life. He looked like death sitting there, pale and thin and lifeless.

And thanks to Voldemort, that night I had the worst nightmare of my entire life.

My body felt strange; my movements felt awkward as if my limbs had been replaced with someone else's, and I felt a second set of emotions mingling with my own. Thoughts and notions that were not mine were rattling around in my brain, but I was only vaguely aware of myself. Somewhere in my mind I registered that this man was Voldemort, and I felt as though I was a ghost inhabiting his body. I couldn't control any emotions or thoughts that were my own now—just awareness.

The room I was sitting in was warm and dark, and I could feel a fire roaring at my back. I looked down a long, narrow table at my followers; a pale man with greasy brown hair and a pit-scarred face was giving me a report over an outbreak of a Muggle illness in London, but I was rather uninterested, and tapped my sharp nails on the mahogany table in a progressively worsening state of annoyance, wondering when he would get to the part about how this drivel was pertinent to the cause.

There was a sudden crash from somewhere downstairs; everyone flinched, but ignored it. Then there was a sound like someone moving around...a break-in? My face contorted into a scowl.

"Silence, Rookwood!" I snapped my head towards Lucius Malfoy. He sat tall and proud, but there was fear in his eyes. "Did you hear anything, Lucius? Just now?"

"Yes, My Lord. It came from downstairs."

"You will go and investigate. If we have an intruder, make sure they are silenced. Report back to me after you have disposed of them."

"Of course, My Lord." Lucius bowed, drew his wand and exited the room. Rookwood looked anxious to finish his report, but I sat in bored silence and waited for Lucius. There were bigger problems at hand if someone had managed to breach the wards.

A scream pierced the air, and then a sound of footsteps thundered up the second floor stairs. About thirty fearful heads snapped to the doorway. Voldemort's anger rose in me, and I wondered why these insolent simpletons couldn't carry out the most basic task without assistance. I tapped my wand on the table in annoyance.

"Rodolphus! Assist Lucius before he fails miserably once again," I hissed. The auburn-haired man visibly shook before he got up and bowed.

He wasn't but three feet from the door when it flew off its hinges, and Lucius tackled Rodolphus to the floor. He was shaking and bloody.

"LUCIUS! What is the meaning of this? You will stop this at once!" I pointed my want at him threateningly. Rodolphus thrashed and screamed in agony; he had been bitten in the throat, and blood was pouring from his carotid artery. Lucius looked up at me; his eyes were a bright ruby red and shiny blood ran from his mouth and eyes. He jumped off of Rodolphus and growled. Narcissa screamed shrilly and clutched her son.

What was wrong with him? The Death Eaters were all looking at me, expecting me to do something to get the situation under control...but this wasn't any curse I recognized. "Finite Incantatem! Finite Incantatem!" The Death Eaters around me were trying to dispell the unknown curse as well, but it wasn't working. Panic rose in my chest, but I kept an expression of utter calm on my face.

Rookwood pointed a shaky finger at Lucius. "Th-this is it! This is what I was talking about! The Muggles, they're diseased and they're going to k-"

"Shut UP, Rookwood!" I barked and pointed my wand at Lucius. "Finite Incantatem!" I cast the spell once more out of desperation. The spell hit him, and he staggered. He vomited black blood all over the rug, but nothing else happened; he growled again and jumped at Goyle Sr. Severus Snape jumped out of the way and tripped over his billowing black robes. He crawled on his hands and knees and took shelter under the table.

The room was a stir of panic, stumbling cloaked figures and fountains of blood. Some of the Death Eaters began firing spells at Lucius Malfoy and Goyle, who had cornered Dolohov. Goyle had dragged him to the floor and was mercilessly clawing him in the face, ignoring Dolohov's pleas for mercy. Rodolphus was on his feet again, blood still pouring from the bite wound in his neck, red-eyed and shaking. His muscles clenched painfully as he was tackled to the ground by Macnair, while Yaxley fired a stunning spell at Rodolphus. Rodolphus vomited, spewing black vomit all over Yaxley. It was mayhem.

The ones who weren't being attacked were cowering or trying to flee; the distinct crack of several wizards disapparating echoed through the hall. I clenched my fist around my wand and scowled. I thought about ways that I would punish them for their cowardice later. I was surprised to sense such a level of shock in the normally stoic Dark Lord. Not only did I not recognize this curse, but it seemed to be spreading somehow. I was yelling frantic orders to the Death Eaters who were still standing, trying counter-curses one after the one in hopes that one would be effective.

All over the room, the few remaining Death Eaters began to Disapparate. Narcissa latched onto Draco, tears streaming down her terror-stricken face, and Dispparated them away with the rest. A sense of panic and anger filled me. How dare they run away in the middle of a disaster like this! But looking around, it was hard to tell the attackers from the victims. There were unfamiliar faces in the brawl; two Muggles had entered the fray (How had they even gotten past the wards? Had the Muggle-repelling charms failed as well?) Their ruby eyes and bloodied clothes were indistinguishable from the Death Eaters. Did they come in from outside? Or perhaps they were the original curse victims.

No spell or curse could spread like this—_so_ effectively from Muggle to wizard!

It was then that I felt a foreign emotion, sudden and uninvited: fear.

I Dispparated just as the red-eyed Carrows leapt on Bellatrix, who was tending to a bleeding Dolohov.

The scene changed in a flash. I was standing in a sea of cars in front of the King's Cross station, jammed haphazardly in every direction, trapping screaming families inside. Muggles and wizards alike jumped over and through the cramped space, brandishing wands and weapons. This was a disease-a virus-I realized, and it was being spread by blood. I shot stunning spells at a group of Muggles brandishing guns, and wizards throughout the crowd began to Disapparate as the infection spread like a wave; the crowd was a teeming sea of red eyes and frightened faces.

I shielded myself from stray bullets and tried to save as many of the wizards as I could; a few tried to fly away on brooms, and the crowd shrieked as they were shot out of the sky. Rage rose in me as the crowd erupted into mass panic, Muggles and wizards firing bullets and spells indiscriminately, unable to tell who was infected and who was not.

The world swirled around me again, and now I was shielding my eyes from flying debris with thin, bony hands; I hid behind a reception desk in the atrium of the Ministry of Magic. I was looking around frantically for any uninfected Death Eaters that may have been working inside the Ministry. I peered around the edge of the desk, and I felt anger that was not mine when a few poorly-aimed spells went flying by, narrowly missing me. I felt Voldemort's apprehension and glee. There could still be a few Ministry employees alive. There was still a chance to seize the Ministry and bring order to this disaster.

The marble floor was soaked with water; the Fountain of Magical Brethren was blasted apart, and a stone arm lay not five feet from where I was hiding. Various other statues went crashing to the floor with huge sheets of broken glass. Wizards fell from high office windows, landing gruesomely on the black marble below in twisted, grotesque knots of bone and flesh. People were running in every direction, crowding around the grates. Infected Ministry employees ran amok, and the few uninfected Aurors were facing off against Rufus Scrimgeour. He had blood on his hands, and the black vomit ran from his mouth like a river.

The former Minister Fudge was being gnawed on by Percy Weasley and an infected Unspeakable. Somewhere in the distance, Dumbledore was desperately firing stunners at another group of Unspeakables, until a few more Infected ambushed another Order member—Kingsley Shacklebolt—from behind, and Dumbledore turned and fled for the grates as they dragged Shacklebolt away.

I jumped out from behind the desk and swept through the air, intending to take advantage of the situation and kill Dumbledore while was still cornered and the rest of the Order was either infected or otherwise occupied protecting the Ministry. But the room was too crowded, and Voldemort's anger boiled as Dumbledore flooed away just in time to escape a well-aimed Avada Kedavra.

I kept firing curses into the grate in anger even after he disappeared, blasting away the black tile and swearing loudly. I then felt Voldemort's anger retreat like the ebb tide, leaving him void of everything but fear and hopelessness. It had been shrouded in anger and hopeful ambition before, but now I felt it as clearly as I felt my own emotions. I looked at my reflection in the cracked onyx in front of the grate. It was as if I was the only one standing still in a churning sea of infected and uninfected wizards, stumbling over the dead bodies of their fallen comrades. I turned and looked desperately towards the atrium, a mental war raging in my head; should I make one last frantic attempt to search for surviving Death Eaters, or should I run away now and save myself?

The blood on the floor mingled with the water and ran down the grout lines in great, red rivers. I became aware that I was hovering a few feet off the ground, and a felt a growing sense of repulsion; ironic that the Dark Lord couldn't stand the sight of blood pooling on the floor. I wasn't sure whether the thought was Voldemort's or my own, even though the conclusion would be clear to anyone: _there was nothing left there. _The battle would end and there would be no survivors. There would be more infected and more dead wizards, but no one would be left alive.

Profound disappointment and sadness overcame me. Right before I Disapparated, I pointed my wand towards the towering ceiling and brought the entire roof down, burying both the Ministry and thousands of Infected wizards forever.

Images flashed through my mind like broken pieces of a movie. I was running through the Leaky Cauldron, away from Diagon Alley; screams pierced the air as the Infected ravaged the crowds of women and children...windows broken, tables overturned, witches and wizards desperately pounding on the barred doors of Gringotts. Now I'm in Muggle London again, stampeding down the street in a huge crowd of Muggles and wizards, hundreds of infected nipping at our heels, slowing picking us off, one by one; I feel Voldemort's fear, and I'm conflicted between flying away and trying to save all of these people. And then another image comes; I'm all alone on a rooftop, my breathing heavy and uneven; I hear Voldemort's scream coming from my mouth, sullen and anguished, but it echoes off the walls of the empty buildings. No one is alive to hear it.

His anguish doesn't leave me, but becomes more and more frantic as the scene shifts again and I'm standing in a dark room. There's a sound like a bed sheet being torn in half as I tear off a long strip of sticky tape and press it to a window covering, my hands quivering as I fumble with the roll; my eyes are shifting frantically around the room, scared that I missed a crack or that one of the tarps will fall down if I didn't attach it well enough. I'm in my chair now, sitting at the center of the market so I can see all the exits; I'm staring straight ahead into nothingness, but I can't stop my hands from shaking or get my breathing under control. I feel how exhausted Voldemort is and suddenly just want to sleep—to fall asleep and never awaken—but I'm too dizzy with his anger and fear. How can I sleep when I'm the only one who isn't dead?

The scene changes before me, and I feel Voldemort's mood change. I feel that he's happier now; he feels a flicker or hope again...but also disgust—disgust with himself; I'm sitting on the floor, hunched over a bundle of blankets and bandages, tending to the wounds of a bloodied, emaciated young man. Shock jolts me out of my voyeuristic stupor when I see the boy is _me_; I felt my emotions separate from Voldemort's, becoming aware of my own tangible existence once again, just as I saw Voldemort turn my face to wipe the blood and dirt away from a scratch on my cheek. The room was dark around us, and not a sound could be heard except the soft, incoherent muttering of the Dark Lord.

"Alive…. alive… you're alive. You're alive..." he murmured. The vision began to melt away before my eyes, but his sad laughter rang in my ears until everything else had faded into blackness.

My eyelids fluttered open and I groaned, muffled by the bed coverings I had buried my head in. I shimmied out of the tangle of blankets that had wound around me in my sleep, but Voldemort was nowhere in sight. Daylight was already peeking through the cracks at the tops of the windows and I was seized by a pang of panic at the thought that he might have left me here alone all day—possibly longer. However, at that moment I was more concerned with breakfast. Yes... yes, breakfast would be a good idea. My body felt strange and for a moment I had a hard time believing I was really awake. Was I still dreaming that same dream? I appeared to be myself, but was I? It was so much like the nightmares I had before—like the nightmares I'd had since I was a child—but this one was different somehow. I couldn't just feel Voldemort's anger, but also his sadness and his fear and his panic. Was all of it real? Could all of it actually have happened? I made a note to myself to investigate further, and question him about it if I could get away with it. My stomach gave a protesting growl, bringing me out of my musings.

It seemed luck was on my side, since—so far, at least—it appeared I had the whole place to myself and plenty of time at hand to think of how to approach the Dark Lord with awkward and upsetting questions.

I didn't bother to dress myself before I had a look around the market. It was the height of summer, but the tile floor was still cold on my bare feet. I peeked down the frozen foods aisle (where everything was rotting away behind sealed glass) before taking a turn down the breakfast cereal aisle. I snatched two boxes of Shreddies off the top shelf and scowled to myself when I remembered Voldemort telling me he'd thrown away all the milk. I opened up the first box and munched on handfuls of cereal as I walked around the store, occasionally stopping to examine something when I couldn't tell if it was perishable or not.

Eventually I halted in front of the (former) produce section, where I found Voldemort picking through the dried fruits and muttering to no one irritably. Not wanting to eavesdrop on the Dark Lord's conversation with himself, I cleared my throat loudly.

"Harry!" Voldemort turned with a start before promptly composing himself. "You're awake," he added, although it sounded like an accusation more than a statement. He looked at me, eyes trailing up and down a few times in scrutiny before his face settled into a sour expression. "What on earth are you wearing?"

"Well," I glanced down at my wrinkled t-shirt and blue-green boxer shorts, "not much at the moment."

"Next time you will appear more presentable for breakfast," the Dark Lord scowled, "which I can see you've already helped yourself to. We're operating on a limited food supply, you know."

"Err, sorry. I woke up a bit late and...I wasn't sure if you were still here or not."

"Late indeed, Potter!" he snapped. "It's nearly ten o'clock."

"Oh, bloody-! 10 o'clock? Dammit!"

"There's no need to swear over the matter," Voldemort sighed calmly. "I'm afraid we've both slept in, so we won't be leaving until sunset anyway."

"But...sunset? Why sunset? If there are people hiding with the Weasleys, don't you think they've waited long enough already? We have to get there as soon as possible!"

"I understand that, Potter, but I will _not _put myself in unnecessary danger if it can be avoided."

"You put yourself in unnecessary danger when you rescued me," I pointed out.

"You don't understand, Harry," Voldemort retorted. "You have _no idea_ what's out there. You wandered around for—what, a day maybe? I searched and searched for survivors, Harry, for nearly_ two weeks_ I searched and found no one! I took a tremendous risk each and every day that I searched, and even I must confess that I feared for my life. You haven't seen it—oh, no! You haven't _really_ been out there. You don't know what it was like. You, Harry, can never understand exactly how profound it is that you were the _only one_ alive." His expression turned stern and somber, and although his eyes were fixed on me, he was looking at something distant and sad. "This isn't a search-and-rescue game, Harry. You haven't the slightest idea how much danger we will be putting ourselves in venturing that far from the city. We will wait because ultimately it will not matter if we go to them or not. In all actuality, they are likely already dead."

I shook my head. "You're wrong," I said, "and you'll see when we get there. Ron's a survivor like me. He may not be the smartest wizard ever, but he has common sense. He'd protect himself."

Voldemort looked at me with a blank expression, and I wondered if he was just trying to mask the doubt and contempt towards my hopefulness. "I certainly do hope so," he remarked dryly before changing the subject. "Now, which would you prefer: prunes or apricots?"

I didn't care much for dried fruit, but eventually picked up two plastic-wrapped cartons of dried apricots to go with my cereal, if for no other reason than to occupy my mind with something other than the awful dream I had the night before, or keep me from mentioning it to Voldemort. He had no idea how wrong he was; I _did_ know what it was like. In a way, I'd been there.

We spend the rest of the day gathering the necessary food and supplies for our journey in graceless silence. I kept my mind on rescuing Ron and tried not to think about all the obstacles that would probably lie in our way, but every once in a while one would come creeping back into my consciousness like a squirming, nasty maggot: How would the Weasleys react to Voldemort's presence? What would happen if they tried to harm him? What would I say to Ron if his family had been killed? What would _Voldemort_ say to _me_ if Ron had been killed? The more I thought about it, the more I didn't want to go, and the fact that I was honestly considering the thought of _not_ searching for Ron made me sick to my stomach. How could I be so selfish?

That afternoon Voldemort kept his promise to me and returned my school trunk to its normal size. Strangely, I hadn't been quite so annoyed at the loss of my wand when I needed to save myself from the Infected, but I suddenly felt as though something very precious and personal had been taken from me forever. Perhaps I just didn't like being dependent on the Dark Lord for something so simple as retrieving my own belongings, but I shrugged it off and told myself that there were more important things to worry about than tracking down my Uncle and getting my wand back.

Like saving Ron, for instance. Although I wasn't supposed to be thinking about that, either.

Voldemort hovered over me like a specter while I unpacked a few basic provisions. He was getting a slide show of every single personal item I owned and it made me terribly nervous. I was expecting to turn around and be met with a scornful scowl, but he looked amused and...almost encouraging.

He raised his eyebrows when I took out the framed picture of my parents and set it next to the wad of sheets I was using as a pillow.

"You actually wasted enough time to pack up family photos?" The contempt in the Dark Lord's voice was nearly tangible and he nearly laughed. I found myself strangely angry that he thought my personal memories were such a waste. "It's no wonder they wanted to leave you behind if you'd rather save an old picture over your own skin."

"Yes, well it's not like _you'd_ understand," I snapped. "Some people actually like thinking about their families and friends before they go to sleep every night. Not that you'd understand anything about that."

"Merely commenting on the irony that you risked your life to save a picture of two people who are long since deceased."

"They're not just people to me," I retorted, "They're my parents. You know? The ones you _killed_? And to me, it is important...I'd risk my life for their memory. If I wake up tomorrow and I die, at least I'll have the memories of their love to comfort me."

"I'm certainly not questioning the validity of your memories, Potter. But do you truly believe that your parents' memory lies in that picture? Would not having it make their spiritual presence any less comforting?"

"I...well, no, I suppose not," I admitted quickly, "but it's still important to me, even if it's just sentimental."

"You, Harry, are entirely too attached to your _things_," Voldemort explained. "You're really quite wrong. I know quite a bit about taking comfort in others, but I also realize that the comfort lies in my _own_ thoughts. It is not the tangible presence that matters—be it a living body or just a photograph—but the notion that someone else had existed for you."

I tried to wrap my mind around his philosophical musings and finally nodded a bit, although my confusion was obvious and he smirked coyly.

"I might have lost my mind if you hadn't shown up, Harry," he added. I looked at him quizzically and he gave me a pleading expression. "It's difficult thinking that you're the only one left. Even if it was you, Harry...I'm profoundly glad that I found someone else. You have your parents' memory, and now I have your presence. And should I lose my life I could do so thinking of at least one other person who survived with me, even for a short while."

I was stunned speechless for a moment and all I could do was look at the floor and stutter while I tried to find the right words. "I—I... thank you," I finally said, nearly choking on the irony that I was thanking the Dark Lord for something that sounded suspiciously like a compliment. "I, err...I really am grateful for all of your help, you know, even if this is just temporary..." He acknowledged me with a nod that relayed, "As you should be." I stifled a small laugh.

"That being said...I wouldn't feel right if I never thanked you for saving my life," I said quietly. "I know that things...can't change, can they? In the end, we're still enemies, but... for the time being, you didn't have to do what you did. You could have left me there to die, but you didn't."

Voldemort nodded impassively. "I did what was necessary at the time. You were in danger and I needed to make a decision. I knew it was unlikely I'd come across another wizard, and the presence of an enemy seemed preferable to slowly losing my sanity as the last man alive."

It was an illegitimate replacement for "you're welcome," but it was as much as I knew I'd ever get—and far more than I expected, so I simply agreed and went back to unpacking.

By five o'clock that evening we'd made all of the necessary provisions and were ready to depart for Ottery St. Catchpole. I was weighed down with supplies once again, although I somehow had managed to fasten Dudley's old belt around the burden so I could carry it more comfortably. We packed enough supplies so that we could give a meal to any survivors we came across, and the load was still quite heavy even though most of our supplies were shrunken and had lightening charms applied to them before being packed away. Voldemort also warned me to wear light clothing since we had quite a walk, so I kept my wrinkled t-shirt on and changed back into my old cargo jeans. Voldemort had to perform several cleaning charms; they were still smeared in dirt and dried blood from my little bike ride from Little Whinging to London. Voldemort wore a simple black robe with several silver fastenings and a tattered pair of Muggle trousers that fit him about as well as Dudley's jeans fit me.

"We're going to Apparate to a section of the forest near the Lovegood residence," he explained to me as he delicately laced his hiking boots. I nodded, only momentarily wondering how he knew were the Lovegoods lived. He _was_ the Dark Lord, after all.

"Do you think many Infected have managed to cross the river?" I asked worriedly.

"It is unlikely," he mused. "The Infected do not seem to display signs of intelligible reasoning or problem solving skills. It is possible that some of them could have forded the river where it is shallow, but most would drown in the crossing. That is, if they were stupid enough to approach the river to begin with."

"It's going to be late when we return tonight, isn't it?" I said. I tried to disguise the worry and fear in my voice, but the thought of being out on the streets in the dark where the Infected could sneak up on us unnoticed...

"It would be wise if we spent tonight in St. Catchpole. We won't have to rush our search, and we'll have more daylight hours in which to look for survivors in the village. Finding a safe place to rest will not be as difficult in a small town."

"I'm sure the Weasleys wouldn't mind if we stayed in The Burrow. I'm sure they'd take us both in after they see how much you've helped me. Plus, it would help if there were more people to look for survivors, wouldn't it?"

Voldemort grunted a stolid response and rose from his chair. He quickly changed the subject. "Have you ever used Side-Along Apparition?" he asked.

"No," I said, "but I've read about it. It's not going to be dangerous, is it?"

"It shouldn't be," Voldemort said simply. He beckoned me over with his wand and we stood in the middle of the empty tile floor.

"How does this work? What do I need to do?" I asked. I was a bit concerned about Apparating since I didn't have my wand and hoped that I wouldn't have to focus my magic much without it.

"You don't have to do anything except be still," the Dark Lord told me. He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me against his chest, and I tried not to tense as he put his arm around my shoulder—a gesture more human than I thought him capable of exhibiting, and he looked at me aberrantly. "You might want to hold on, Potter. This will be a bit uncomfortable."

Because apparently finally grasping that his skin was warm and corporeal like mine (not cold or scaly or illusory), and that he had a very distinctive human heart beating away in his chest wasn't already uncomfortable enough.

The momentary squeeze of discomfort I felt as he Disapparated us away paled in comparison.

**Important Author's Notes / Question Response (Please read! Or, y'know... just skip it...):**

I've been getting a lot of reviews to the effect of "This looks a lot like Resident Evil/I Am Legend/28 Days! Is that what you based the fic on?" The answer is both yes and no. I'm a big Resident Evil fan, and I love the _28 Trilogy_ (Danny Boyle is my God). I've also read the original I Am Legend (the book, not the movie) and loved it. All of these films/games are actually based on an old science fiction novel called "The Day of the Triffids". Bits and pieces of the setting were inspired by various things, including the original book. The virus and its symptoms were inspired by the 28 trilogy, while characters and settings later in the fic were inspired by Richard Preston's "The Hot Zone" and the biography of Dr. CJ Peters. This can't truly be labeled as a "crossover" since no characters/situations from the original books/movies will appear in the fic. It's more "hodge-podge AU" than anything and it was difficult for me to place it in a particular genre because of that. Hope that answers everybody's questions!

Secondly, I've been getting reviews mentioning that Voldemort is slightly OOC; at this point, this is entirely **intentional**. So _you can stop telling me now, because I already know. _Seriously...I'm not giving out an Excellence in Obviousness award...

He has, of course, retained the majority of his ill temperament, but he's also become jumpy, depressed and hopeless. He tries to keep a front, but in reality he's been deeply traumatized; he accuses Harry of being afflicted by PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), but fails to acknowledge similar symptoms in himself. All of his deepest ambitions have been pulled out from under his feet by something he can't control. In this chapter, Harry will gain some insight on exactly what happened during the weeks that he was unconscious at Privet Drive.

Also, I would like to state now that this fic will not be HBP/DH compliant, since it happens the summer before Harry's 6th year. Horcruxes and the like will play a role, but not yet. Harry will eventually get his wand back, but I'm not sure when.

Don't hesitate to ask if there's something special you're wondering about. If it won't reveal too much, I'll answer in the next chapter. Thanks for the questions!

**End Notes/Excuses: **Oh my... I'm so sorry this chapter is late! ((showers reviewers with icing-decorated HP cookies and millions of hugs)) I **really** do apologize! This month has been terrible for fic writing. I came down with pneumonia at the beginning of February (yuck, right?) and then attending a couple of protest rallies. On top of everything, I've had to long-term research projects to work on, and between it all I've hardly had the time to work on this chapter. To the convenience of my beta, this chapter is a bit shorter than I would have liked, but chapter 6 will be a bit longer than this one. Again, a thousand apologies for my lateness. A new semester starts after spring break, and hopefully my class load won't be as daunting. Thank you so much for all of your reviews! They've been very inspiring on the days when I got stuck. This fic wouldn't exist without all of your support, so thank you, thank you, THANK YOU!


	6. Gain and Loss

**Title: **Plague and Pestilence  
**Author: **Fangworthy  
**Rating: **M (Mature) / R.  
**Summary: **A mysterious, incurable virus ravages Europe. Harry's fear begins when he wakes up alone, sure that he is the sole survivor. His terror begins when he realizes that he isn't.  
**Warnings: **Graphic violence (I'm not just saying this for the sake of saying it!), detailed depictions of disease/resulting death. Abundance of character death! AU-ness, eventual spoilers through DH. SLASH! Eventual HP/LV (Harry/Voldemort). Violent!Harry.

**Notes/Disclaimer: **I don't own anything except the clothes on my back. Not even the computer I'm writing on. Yes, I stole it.

_"**Gain and loss**, birth and death are in the hands of God."_

_- Sri Sathya Sai Baba_

**Chapter 6**

"**Gain and Loss"**

Before I had time to concentrate on how terribly uncomfortable it made me to be in such close bodily proximity to the man who killed my parents, my thoughts were rudely interrupted by my body slamming into the wet ground. I rolled a few times down a small berm before skidding to a halt face-down in the tall grass.

Voldemort, who had a bit more luck with his landing and was actually still on his feet, rolled his eyes before stomping over and pulling me to my feet by my collar. He looked flustered, but I probably looked worse, and I dearly hoped he wasn't about to laugh at me as I wiped the muck off my glasses and spat out a piece of sod.

"Alright, Potter?"

"Disoriented," I shook the dirt out of my hair. "And dizzy. But alright, I guess."

"Well hurry up and get your bearings," He scolded as he helped gather the belongings that I had shaken loose in my nasty landing. "We need to get moving quickly. We must check for any survivors and find suitable shelter by nightfall."

Inwardly I heaved a small sigh of relief that Voldemort had a plan, and seemed to be so accommodating. I had actually expected a great deal of grumbling and complaining when I had hinted that I would like to search for the Weasleys, but so far Voldemort seemed rejuvenating by the simple act of being out on his feet and looking for other survivors. His strong sense of purpose impressed me, although I quickly had to remind myself not to confuse his enthusiasm for our mission with actual feelings of care and concern.

We tromped through the tall grass in silence, rays of orange light cutting through the thin leaves as the sun sank lower in the sky. As we rounded the top of the hill, a tall, dark cylindrical structure rose from the ground like a castle turret. It looked like a giant, gray sandcastle bucket, or some sort of grain silo.

I jogged to catch up to him and pointed towards the dark tower at the top of the hill.

"What is that place?"

"Our destination."

"But the Weasleys live in the other direction!" I exclaimed. "We don't have time to explore, we have to get to them!"

"Calm yourself, Potter," Voldemort snapped. "That is the Lovegood residence. We will check their house as well while we are in the area."

I wanted to say something else in protest, or to urge him to hurry, but all I managed was a simple "oh". I suddenly felt guilty upon discovering the location of the Lovegood house, that I hadn't thought to go look for Luna as well. It was in that moment that I realized I was more worried about Ron than anyone else, and that he truly was my best friend. But did that mean he deserved favoritism in our search? Was finding him alive more important than finding Luna and her father alive? I felt a deep and sickening guilt when I realized that, to me, it was. I hardened my expression and tried to push the matter out of my mind, knowing that these were not musings that a Dark Lord would consider worth listening to.

Voldemort stopped at the small wooden gate in front of the Lovegood house and set down the large pack of supplies, crouching to retrieve and assemble a few simple weapons and other previsions. Close up, the house looked like a single castle tower or a giant black chess piece. There were windows on several stories, but all of them were darkened, and there were no obvious outward signs that the house was still occupied.

"I didn't know the Lovegoods lived in the area," I commented. "How did you know about them?"

"I'm a Dark Lord," Voldemort said haughtily. "It's my business to know such things. Besides, Xenophilius may be an old crackpot, but it's of little consequence if it means one more wizard alive."

"Crackpot?"

"Well, yes, the old man authors the _Quibbler_. Didn't you know?"

"Err, yeah…I forgot about that," I nodded. "I remember Luna reading it all the time, but I was never much of a fan myself."

"You wouldn't be, would you, Potter?" He sneered. "I see you would much prefer the rosy scenarios the _Prophet_ weaves, wouldn't you?"

"Hardly," I snapped. "Until recently they advocated that _I_ was the crackpot…and that you didn't even exist!"

"Precisely why I prefer _The Quibbler_ myself."

I sighed. Of course, I thought, why wouldn't he want some credit for his horrendous doings? It also struck me that he was probably just trying to start an argument because he was irritated and edgy, so I kept my mouth shut. He was already doing me a tremendous favor by coming all the way out to St. Catchpole, and I did not want to push my luck.

The Lovegood house had the odd appearance of being both rundown and well taken-care of. We passed through a broken gate. It looked like someone had recently ripped it off one of its hinges in a mad rush to leave, and the fence wasn't in much better shape. It had bent nails and various signs posted all around, which had probably been taken down, moved and re-written various times. The current one, hanging by a rusted nail on the gate, read: "ZOMBIES UNWELCOME".

"We aren't zombies yet," I said, "so I suppose that means we're allowed in?"

Voldemort ignored me and strolled through the gate like he owned the place. "If we go by what the sign says, then I suppose anyone who fancied would be allowed," he said pretentiously, "since they're _not_ undead at all. The proper term would actually be _Inferi_…but they're certainly not Inferi either, are they? They're much too fast..."

I wasn't quite as well-versed on the various types of undead as Voldemort was, so I simple replied with a "whatever".

"Whatever yourself, Potter!" Voldemort retorted. We were now standing in front of a tall door with an Eagle-shaped knocker, and if we hadn't already alerted the occupants of our arrival, Voldemort's yelling most certainly would. "This certainly isn't the time to be blissfully ignorant, so excuse me for attempting to cure you of your idiocy."

"Well excuse me for being uninformed," I huffed. "I've been a bit too busy worrying about psychotic mass murders trying to kill me for the past 15 years of my life. Learning about the Undead must have fallen by the wayside."

"Then let's think of this as a learning opportunity, shall we?"

Voldemort rapped on the door with his bony fist and stepped back, waiting patiently. I was momentarily concerned about what would happen if Xenophilis, or God forbid Luna, should answer the door to find Voldemort and myself standing there, but oh, fuck it all, things were strange enough as it was. Finding The Dark Lord and the Boy Who Lived at your doorstep couldn't be that much of a shocker considering the circumstances.

I sighed. "Perhaps they're not in."

"Perhaps they're both dead," Voldemort said.

"Are you going to be this negative for the whole rest of the day?"

"Are you going to keep being disgustingly cheerful while the Infected nip at our heels?" Voldemort growled.

"Yes, just to annoy you, as a matter of fact," I said. I stepped in front of him and pushed the heavy wooden door open; the door creaked on its hinges like it hadn't been opened for quite a while. It wasn't even locked. "Coming in?"

Voldemort harrumphed and pushed past me, wand poised to attack. Voldemort snapped his neck around in all directions, scanning the silent room for god-knows-what, while I had the insight to shut the door behind us. It made a loud _bang_ as it shut and it made Voldemort jump.

I stifled a snort as he fumbled with his wand, but then he glared at me and I shut up. "Sorry," I said. "Just thought it would be better to shut the door, in case we were followed."

"Yes, well," he huffed, regaining his composure without missing a beat, "good idea… I suppose. If any Infected followed us, they'll have a difficult time getting in."

The room was dark, and although it was difficult to see, the one thing that stood out was the paint. The room, which appeared to be a kitchen, looked as though it had been attacked by school children with giant buckets of poster-paint. Bright blues, reds and yellows stained the walls and cabinets. Everything was also sparely decorated with miniature paintings of plants, insects and other creatures that I couldn't even recognize. It was a zoological mural gone horribly wrong, and I wondered for a moment if the decorating were the doing of Luna or her father. Possibly both.

"Very, err…artistic, aren't they?" I commented.

"My thoughts precisely." Voldemort strolled around the kitchen, peering inside a few of the cabinets while I paced around the room.

The floor, covered with dust, paper and other small bits of debris, was also piled with small, black twisted pieces of metal, singed and melted. Curiously, I looked up and saw why: Above me were the remains of a spiral staircase, which probably once led to the upper floors of the house. About two floors up I could see that the stair case ascended normally, but all that remained on the first two levels were scraps of metal and a gaping, round hole in the ceiling.

"Err, V-voldemort," I called awkwardly. I had no idea what else to call him, and I was sure he'd hex me to oblivion for calling him "Tom".

He stopped poking through the Lovegoods' cabinets and craned his neck around to stare at me. "What is it, Potter?"

"Did you see the staircase?"

"Staircase?" He looked at me as though I were crazy. I pointed up through the hole in the ceiling. He sighed, brushing his bony hands off on his robe and sauntered over gracefully. Staring up through the hole, he suddenly giggled maniacally, clapping me on the back. "Would you just look at that, Harry! Look at it!" He barked. "The clever old bat, he blew up the staircase!"

He bent over and picked up one of the scorched bits of metal in his hands, running his fingers over it in examination. "Look at all the melted bits! He probably melted the entire bottom half right off…clever, clever idea!"

I sighed. "Look, I figured that much," I said. "That wasn't really the point. D'you think anyone might still be up there?"

He dropped the melted iron and it clattered to the floor noisily. "Hah!" He barked. "Heavens, no. Xenophilius obviously took the precautions necessary to protect his belongings and then fled. Besides, someone would have heard us by now and come looking….oh, and all of their things are missing as well."

"Err, missing?" I blinked at him, confused. "What d'you mean, missing? They just up and left and took everything with them?"

"It would appear that they had the foresight to do so," Voldemort said proudly. "Either that or their kitchen has been looted."

"Oh," I sighed. "At least they're safe, I hope." I was a bit sad, though I tried not to show it. For a few moments I had gotten my hopes up that I might see Luna again, but I tried to be glad for her and her father; perhaps they had a fighting chance if they had been able to get away from this place.

"This is an excellent find, however, isn't it?" Voldemort looked almost giddy. "Survivors or no, this means that tonight we'll have a safe place to stay."

Comprehending the thought of spending the night in the Lovegoods' abandoned house with the former Dark Lord—and possibly some of the Weasleys—was not entirely impossible to do, but did require some rather complicated mental and moral acrobatics that I probably would not have been capable of several weeks prior to that point.

So without exploring further, we left the Lovegood residence with our provisions in tow. Voldemort was still smug and disgruntled as ever, but thankfully refrained from making any more comments about the ambiguous life-or-death state of the Weasleys, preferring instead to grumble to himself while shaking his head…or shuddering, I couldn't really tell. In hindsight, it's possible that my presence along the mission was making him as nervous as his made me.

Although I would later feel rather thankful I did so, I felt guilty as Voldemort and I trudged through the tall grass and the marsh because I couldn't stop thinking about how quiet and peaceful the absolute stillness of the outdoors was. The sun was sinking lower in the sky, casting sharp shadows across the ground wherever the gules cut through the tall weeds. The sky was milky orange color, and the only clouds in sight were small pink-and-purple wisps. It had been a long time since I had seen a sunset like that, out in the open of the wilderness; I was usually too consumed with worrying about my Potion's grade (and megalomaniacal Dark Lords) to pay much attention to nature. It brightened my spirits a little to witness to something so beautiful. But also uncomfortable; shouldn't it bother me a lot more to be enjoying it in the company of the man who murdered my family? I shrugged it off. Again.

The potential for emotional upheaval was not something I needed right then, so I buried by thoughts and trudged along silently behind the balding figure, occasionally fighting urges to make rude faces at the back of his head.

As if he sensed the mental Bronx Cheer I was giving him right then, he snapped at me, "You've been uncharacteristically quiet, Potter," he chortled mirthfully. "Haven't gone and gotten yourself infected already, have you?"

"No," I bit out, rolling my eyes so far back into my head I thought I'd have a stroke. "Sorry to disappoint, but I'm still alive and well."

I expected him to snap back at me with some snarky come-back or perhaps threaten to hex me and throw me to the Infected himself. Instead, he turned on his heel and squared me with the most peculiar expression I had ever seen in my life.

His shoulders seemed to slump while his red eyes bugged out of his head, and he _frowned_. He looked like a dog that had just been hit in the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.

"Why on earth would you ever say something like that?" He demanded, his voice raising in pitch a half-octave. His arms were twitching all about and I couldn't tell if he was trying to draw his wand on me or was just having some sort of spasm. "Wish you were infected? Me! _WISH_ you were infected! Christ, Potter, after all the time I've spent preventing you from being so, WISH that YOU were INFECTED!"

"Err, I…uh," I blinked at him stupidly, completely unable to comprehend why he was acting so terribly offended. "Y-you did want me dead, I mean, until recently?" I didn't intend for the statement to come out so weak.

Now he was sputtering and twitching and looking like he was going to have a seizure. Or at the very least was wildly conflicted about whether or not he needed to _Crucio _some sense into me, for whatever reason.

Finally he shouted at me, "That is absolutely the _most moronic_ thing that has ever come out of your mouth, Potter! Ever!" I had now unconsciously taken several steps backwards because he was acting like a crazy person. "Take a look around, Potter! Just _look!_ Open your eyes and turn your stupid little head around and bloody LOOK!"

I nervously did as he said. I really didn't want to tempt him in his current state of mental health.

"Do you see any other bloody wizards anywhere, Potter?"

"No," I answered honestly.

"And do you know why?" He pressed, his voice growing drastically higher as he advanced on me now, holding not his wand—but instead the rusted, bloodied pick-ax he had offered me yesterday—pointed straight at my head.

"Be-because they're infected?" I offered, stumbling back nervously through the mud and weeds. "Or dead?"

"Precisely!" He shrieked, shaking the ax at me. "_Every—last—one_ that I've seen, Potter. Except for us. _Us_, Potter! If these blood traitors of yours are dead, do you have any idea what that means, Potter? ANY idea at all?"

"No," I squeaked.

"We're the last ones! The end of the magical bloodline! No more magic, Potter, that's what it damned well means!" There was a large blue vein in his forehead that looked like it was about to burst, though he hadn't pulled out his wand and AK'ed me. Yet.

In fact, instead, Voldemort flipped the pick-ax around in his hand, and with the same hurt, infuriated look on his pallid face, offered me the handle. I took it with two trembling hands and made a conscious effort to not look like I was close to pissing myself. Although I was. Thankfully, he seemed to calm down a bit after I took the pick-ax from him, even though he did keep staring at me irritably, which began to get very uncomfortable after a moment since I wasn't sure whether or not I was supposed to acknowledge his tantrum or pretend it hadn't happened. I opted or the former.

"Uh…sorry," I apologized awkwardly.

This seemed to diffuse the tense atmosphere. The irate expression almost immediately disappeared from his face and was replaced with the usual smirk. "I'm glad you see things my way," he said haughtily. "Apology accepted. Now let's get a move on." And with that, he turned away as if nothing had happened and continued to lead our trek through the hills.

I staggered forward, unable to believe the spectacle that I had just witnessed: the Dark Lord getting upset with me—even _offended_—that I had insinuated that he wish me harm. Not that it wasn't disturbing enough to watch him have a temper tantrum, but now I had to get used to the fact that the Dark Lord was not only _not_ trying to kill me, but was actually planning on attempting to keep me alive.

I trudged behind him in a haze, blinking stupidly. This was too much to handle. "I-I just don't understand this," I blurted before I even know what I was saying. He turned and blinked at me quizzically and gave me a 'I-think-you're-a-bloody-idiot-for-not-understanding-why-I'm-yelling-at-you' look.

"What's not to understand?"

"I'm just…confused, I suppose," I said finally. "Sorry that I'm not used to this yet, it's just…well, d'you mean to say that you _really_ aren't going to try to kill me anymore? Is that what this is all about?"

He opened his mouth to say something but then seemed to be gripped by another spasm-fit that ended in him spinning around and storming away while muttering curses under his breath. So I never really got an answer.

The Otter River narrowed out as we approached the Burrow, and I started feeling a little happier. I recognized the scenery now and a sense of desperation gripped me the closer we got. I wanted to run ahead, leave Voldemort behind and go somewhere safe, just Ron and me. I could picture it in my head, so clear and resolved that it could have been real. I was going to see Ron again, we were going to be safe, and everything was going to be alright in the end, just like it always was.

But the elation was short-lived. I was so wrapped up in fantasy that it was easy to forget one key factor: Voldemort. My stomach knotted and rose in my throat, and it took me a moment to identify the foreign emotion as _guilt_. Guilt for thinking of leaving him all on his own. Guilt for abandoning him to be torn apart by the Infected while Ron and I ran for our lives. Guilt for never truly paying him back for saving my life…repeatedly.

I tried to tell myself that it didn't matter. It didn't matter if I left him behind because he had wronged me; he killed my parents. He killed countless other witches and wizards who were friends, family, and family _of_ my friends. Moreover, he had repeatedly tried to kill _me_ and nearly succeeded on several occasions. So it didn't matter if I left him behind, I told myself, because he deserved it.

But I still felt guilty, and I didn't know why.

Meanwhile Voldemort, who was completely oblivious to my thoughts of impending ill-will, had already gotten over his previous paroxysm and was in much better spirits. He finally stopped at the top of a steep, grassy hill. After hesitating for a moment, I came to stand next to him. I swallowed thickly.

We had arrived at the Burrow.

"Is that it?" Voldemort asked me, trying to hide a snigger.

I nodded. "Yeah, that's it," I echoed. The Burrow, which already looked ramshackle at the best of times, looked like a hurricane had hit it. I slowly made my way down the hill, Voldemort close behind. My knees locked up and I held my breath; my legs had to be moving on their own, as I'm sure I couldn't have been walking on my own.

The front yard had been torn to shreds. Normally their yard would have been littered with trash, rusty cauldrons and boots. Shards of broken glass and splintered wood now also joined the fray. The front door that normally led to the kitchen was nowhere to be seen, and every single window had been smashed. The garden plants were shriveled and void of the usual berries, and I suspect that even the garden gnomes had vacated the area. There was a dead bird splayed out in front of the garage, but I didn't want to get any closer to see if it was an owl or a chicken.

My feet were rooted to the ground and I could not move. I had once associated the house with happiness and family; it now sagged under its own weight, looking as though it were about to collapse. Voldemort stood at my shoulder, thankfully silent.

"It's never this quiet," I said. "Something bad happened."

Voldemort seemed to mull this over for a moment. "It's entirely possible," he said. "But that's a risk you took in deciding to look for your friend. However, perhaps we should explore the property before making any hasty conclusions."

I nodded, but I didn't want to follow him. He went to garage and tried to pry open the heavy door, probably to pick through its contents and pinch anything useful, and I tried to swallow the feeling that we were looting someone's grave.

I turned my back upon the scene of Voldemort robbing my best friend's garage and, more carefully than I ever had in my life, padded towards the Weasley's front door. I held my breath as I stepped into the kitchen, trying to fill my head with memories of warm hugs from Mrs. Weasley and fond greetings from the rest of the family instead of visions of blood-red eyes and sallow faces which flitted through my mind.

The house was silent as death. The long kitchen table was overturned, broken chairs strewn about. Everything around the room smashed, broken, covered in blood. All nine hands of the Weasley family clock were pointed straight up, towards "Mortal Peril"…I wondered if Moral Peril constituted sickness. Except the twins' hands; Fred and George, the clock told me, were simply "Lost". I swallowed thickly; perhaps that meant death instead?

The haphazard wooden staircase that lead to the upper levels of the Burrow were, strangely, clear. There was no indication that a struggle occurred on the upper levels. My heart jumped. Maybe they had hidden themselves in the attic, or barricaded a room!

Without a second thought, a flew up the first half-flight of stairs, peered out into the darkness and called out, "HELLO! Is anybody up there? It's me, Harry!"

I waited, the silence ringing in my ears. Then, the thunderous sound of footsteps pounding down the stairs.


	7. Abide

**Title**: Plague and Pestilence  
**Author: **Fangworthy  
**Rating: **M / R (For blood, disturbing imagery for the moment)  
**Warnings: **This story will contain slash/male x male relationships. Harry/Voldemort. There will be blood, gore, and detailed depictions of people suffering from violence/disease; please do not take this warning lightly, since it will probably get worse at the story progresses. Questions/Comments/Flames? All are welcome.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**Trigger Warnings: **Suicide. Major character death.

_"Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;_

_The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide;_

_When other helpers fail and comforts flee,_

_Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me._

_Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;_

_Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away;_

_Change and decay in all around I see—_

_O Thou who changest not, abide with me."_

**Chapter 7:**

**"Abide"**

The thundering footsteps morphed into shrieking, and before I could turn to run back down the stairs, red eyes and slackened, drooling jaws were upon me.

Red eyes, and equally red hair. My heart leapt into my throat, and in the back of my mind, I knew-I knew-who this had to be, but my mind had shut down, pushing that knowledge to the back of my mind. Now, there were only those red eyes, and my will to escape.

Somewhere a scream broke from someone's mouth-it could have been mine, but I wasn't sure any more.

And then a few things happened all at once:

I scrambled back down the stairs into the kitchen, and to this very day I do not know how I didn't trip over my own feet right then and there- and I tried to call for help, but no sound would come out; I turned, tried to run for the door, but a hand grabbed the back of my shirt and yanked me back, hard. I went crashing to the dusty floor.

And then there was a woman on top of me, blood pouring from her mouth, the bones of her emaciated form digging into my abdomen, and she lashed at my face with her ragged nails. I held her back by her shoulders, her hands clawing at me, distorted and bloodied.

I thrashed and tried to kick her off of me, but the infection that coursed through her veins seemed to give her an inhuman strength that her scrawny limbs should have lacked. And through the thrashing I saw her face.

Ginny Weasley.

"Ginny, please!" I begged, "Please, it's me, it's Harry! Ginny, if you're in there, oh god, please!" She could only shriek and gurgle in reply. Her body thrashed and shuddered, and I could hardly tell if she was still trying to take aim at me, or if she was having some kind of shaking fit.

I landed a well-aimed knee to her stomach, and felt a sickening pop, which sent her sprawling off of me, and I clambered back. Just in time, too, because as she lurched over with the force of my kick, a fountain of blackish blood erupted from her mouth as she convulsed against the wall where she landed.

And then there were more footsteps on the stairs, more shrieking, the sounds of /something/ banging into the walls as it lurched down the staircase. More red hair, but an older man this time.

"Oh, god...oh, god," I begged, "Mr. Weasley, not you too, not you t-"

"AVADA KEDAVRA!" There was a flash of green light and Mr. Weasley fell, dead before he even hit the ground.

I looked up from my crumpled state on the floor at frantic, ruby eyes.

"Harry, are you hurt? Did they bite you!" He knelt down on the floor and shook both of my shoulders, eyes darting all over, presumably looking for signs of infection.

I became aware of the tears that had started to run down my face. I tried to reply, but only a whimper came out. I shook my head. Wiry hands wound around my forearms and I was dragged to my feet.

"Th-that was Mr. Weasley," I rasped. "He...he was my friend, Ron's dad."

"I know, Harry." His face was an emotionless mask.

"And...and Ginny!" I gestured frantically to the corner by the stairs, where I had thrown Ginny Weasley off of me. Her seizing had calmed, and she lay twitching in a pool of blackened blood, angry red eyes transfixed on me.

"She's bled out," Voldemort stated calmly. "Internal hemorrhage, plus the damage you inflicted on her...she won't last much longer." His eyes raked over my tear-streaked face, calculating. "You should say goodbye, Harry."

"No!" I insisted. I knew what he was going to do, and I didn't want to watch. I couldn't watch. I squeezed my eyes shut as tightly as I could. "No, please. Just, please...make it quick."

He released my forearms, and I heard the swish of his wand cutting through the air, the spell's familiar green flash.

When I opened my eyes again, the rasping had stopped, but her dead eyes remained transfixed on mine, red-flecked and full of rage.

"I...she...she was my friend," I whispered. "They were both friends, and now they...they're..." My knees went suddenly weak and I began to sway.

Voldemort caught me by the shoulders again, holding my upright, and swooped around in front of me. He bent down and leveled his red eyes with mine.

"Look at me, Harry."

"I'm trying, but-" but the room is spinning and my friends are dead and the blood and they tried to kill me, I wanted to say, but words and I were having a bit of a spotty relationship.

"NO," Voldemort bit out definitely, seeming to sense my very thoughts and halt them in their tracks. He gripped both sides of my skull with his thin hands and directed my spinning gaze back towards him. "Look at me. Don't look over there, or /think/ about what's over there. Don't think about them. Just look at me. We came here on a mission, so you need to calm down. Focus... can you do that?"

He kept staring at me, non-blinking, and I tried very hard not to think about how the red of his eyes reminded me of the boiling rage-red of Ginny's. I took a few deep breaths; tried to count out all the dark ruby flecks in his irises, the ones that made them look just-scarlet instead of bloody. I focused on the warm touch of his hands against my neck, and breathed.

"I think I'm okay now," I choked after a minute.

"Like hell you're okay. Can you stand?" He experimentally let go of me for a moment, and I swayed a bit.

"Yes," I lied. He rolled his eyes a bit and linked his left arm with my right.

"You'll be alright, Potter. Just keep focusing on me," he coaxed, and began to pull me along with him. I remember being surprised that he could actually support all of my weight, for all the use my legs were at the time.

I realized too late that he was leading us back to the staircase, now thoroughly splattered in blood from my encounter with Ginny. The thought made the bile began to rise in my throat.

"I...no! Where are we going? You can't go up there, they just came from up there!"

"That's precisely why we're going up."

I resisted a bit more, finally finding some of my footing. I tried to look away from the bodies of my friends, but the gashes of red stood out in the corner of my eye "No, you can't!" I pleaded desperately. "Are you trying to get us killed?"

He yanked me forward by my elbow again, hard this time. I nearly slipped in the pool of blood and crashed into him, but he caught me by the forearms again and rounded on me with One Of Those Looks. His eyes bore into mine dangerously, his mouth pressed into a hard line.

"No, Potter! I am trying to get THEM killed! Don't you understand? These people SUFFER!" He spat the word at me like acid. "Is that what you want? You want them all to suffer? Prolong their misery until they die? Bleed out and die of starvation? Is that what you want?"

I choked on words that refused to form themselves. "I... I-no!"

"Then keep yourself quiet, stand up, and stay behind me!" he hissed at me, but then seemed to regret it. After a moment, his mouth turned downward again and his eyes softened. I wiped away tears with my sleeve that I didn't notice had been falling. "I...I know this hard for you, Harry. But the most you can do for them if offer them a quick, painless death if they have...well, you know."

"I know," I agreed quietly.

"Then come on. Stay behind me, just in case. Do you know how many more there might be?"

I tried to do the math in my head quickly, but I suddenly couldn't remember how many Weasleys there originally had been. My heart sank when I remembered Mrs. Weasley's clock, the words 'mortal peril' surfacing in my mind once again.

"There still should be Ron," I choked, "And his mum, and his four brothers...maybe. But maybe they're not here...they didn't come down the stairs with Ginny and Arthur, so they could have escaped."

"We will not know for sure until we check. We need to be sure... if they haven't been infected, they could still be out there."

I nodded somberly, and linked his left arm with mine again, whether to hold me up or keep me from running ahead and doing something stupid, I wasn't sure. Perhaps both. He led the way up the staircase, our backs pressed to a wall that was still plastered with moving family portraits, which I tried in vain not to glance at as we passed. I held my breath with each step, any second expecting another wave of dripping blood and gnashing teeth to press down upon us from the landing above.

But it didn't. And as we passed each open door, we found each bedroom as empty as the last. A few drawers flung open in haste in the bedrooms of Fred, George, and Ginny, and a couple of torn Quidditch posters, but otherwise untouched. A small bubble of hope began to rise in my chest-perhaps some of them had made it out alive. Perhaps they had been able to flee!

After what seemed like an eternity, we reached the top landing, where a large oak door stood closed. I had never been up that high in the Burrow before, and I soon realized that it must be the bedroom of Arthur and Molly Weasley.

"I think this is the Master Suite," I told Voldemort.

"All the other doors were open," he observed. "But not this one." He reached out tentatively, and rapped on the door a few times.

Not a single sound was to be heard. We both hesitated a few moments.

"There's no sound," I said, suddenly frantic. "Is that good?"

"I don't know," Voldemort replied quietly. "But if there were infected people inside, we'd know by now. They're attracted to sound."

He reached down and jiggled the brass doorknob. Locked.

"It's locked from the inside," he mused, "And it feels like the room has been warded. Someone had to cast the spells, so they could still be inside."

My heart immediately leapt back into my throat, beating like a drum against my ribcage. "Can you open it? Can we get in?"

"Yes, I think so. They're relatively simple wards... sticking charms, silencing spells, notice-me-not charms, odor barricades... it will only take a moment." A few quick waves of his wand and the wards were down, the room unlocked.

I reached out and grabbed the door handle, pushing hard, but it wouldn't budge.

"They've probably stacked something in front of the door. Here, let's both push." Voldemort and I both squared our shoulders against the dark wood and pushed, hard; I felt something give way and topple over as we pushed, and the door finally cracked open.

"Harry!" Voldemort started, but I had already pushed past him into the room, my heart beating a million miles a minute.

A putrid stench filled my nostrils as soon as I stepped over the threshold. It was like nothing I had ever smelled in my life before; it smelled like rot and acid and old meat, and it stung my nostrils, fresh tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. I immediately choked, and I covered my mouth and nose with both hands. I tried not to breath, but I couldn't hold my breath and was forced to take in another lung full of the horrid stench. I swallowed back vomit.

When I finally gained my bearings and looked up, my heart stopped.

Because I realized why it smelled so awful. I realized what the smell was. This wasn't a safe room; it was a tomb. It was the smell of decomposing flesh.

I approached the plain white bed in the center of the room, each step I took echoing dead on the wooden floor. On the bed there were three bodies: two women and a man. The corpses had turned purplish and bloated, but their sunken eyes looked peaceful, as if they had all just lain down to sleep. They were all wearing neat dress clothes, free of blood. There was no sign of struggle, and the two women had their arms draped-peacefully, lovingly-around the smaller man in the center. The bones had started to jut out, and their forms were almost unrecognizable. In his bony hand, the man held a piece of paper.

I stepped forward tentatively and took it from his hand. It wasn't a piece of paper-it was a photograph. From the summer before our fourth year at Hogwarts; Hermione, Ron and me at the World Cup Quidditch game, smiling and waving at the camera.

And on the bed, Molly. Ron. Hermione.

My knees hit the floor and I shuddered. I choked, and the tears tried to come, but I just couldn't breathe... There was a faint movement behind me, and I saw the dark figure sweep around me and pull a sheet over the three bodies, but I couldn't move; I just clutched the photo for dear life, choking on tears and bile.

It seemed so cruel to have to see them in that photo in that moment-smiling back at me, four years ago, as if this were never going to happen. As if those weren't their bodies on the bed in front of me. If I hadn't noticed the ink smearing on my fingers I would have never noticed the message on the back. I turned it over, shaking. It was Hermione's handwriting.

_Our dearest Harry,_

_With deepest love, we left you sleeping._

_Now we're sleeping with you._

_Please don't wake up._

_H. G._

"No," I said firmly. "No, no, no. Not them... no."

"Harry..." I was aware of a vague pressure on my shoulder, but the entire world was spinning around me, and all I could see was that picture. Tears blurred my vision and colors swirled around me; I didn't want to see anyway. "No, no, no, no..." no no no no. It couldn't be them. Had to be a mistake.

This isn't real.

Couldn't be real.

This wasn't happening. If I just shut my eyes tight and opened them again, it would all be gone, back to normal...

I don't know at what point I had started screaming, or what point Voldemort picked me up around the waist and carried me back downstairs; but I remember scraping my nails against the wall, screaming until my throat was burning, wouldn't open my eyes.

Later, he would tell me how I screamed and cursed and threatened him if he wouldn't put me down, let me go back to the room, but I don't remember that part. I remember the screaming, though, and the dizzy, spinning sensation in the center of my brain as we met the cool night air and my entire world went black.

When I awoke again, a pair of warm wiry arms were cradling me; I had the strangest sensation of floating, like I was on a broom, and as I cracked my eyes open, a sky full of stars reached out to greet me through the inky blackness. I let my head fall back against a warm shoulder, and a pair of familiar ruby eyes stared back into mine.

The smell of burning wood filled my nostrils, and I could hear the roar of a giant fire somewhere below me.

"Is that you?" I barely recognized my own voice.

"Yes, Harry." But I recognized that voice, as I heard it in my dreams a thousand times before. Maybe that's what this was-why I felt so dizzy-I was in a dream.

"Where are we?" Through the fog, I remembered that I was here to do something important, but I couldn't remember what. But I felt uneasy...what had gone wrong? I couldn't remember now.

"Hush," he whispered. "It's all over now. We're going home. Go back to sleep."

"Home?" I whispered. Home sounded nice. I wasn't sure where home was, but the Dark Lord's voice sounded familiar enough, and familiar would do for home in my hazy state.

"Yes. We're going home."

"And you'll be there?"

"Yes, Harry. I'll be right there when you wake up. Now, sleep."

I gave into the dizziness once again, as my head lolled back against a warm arm and my eyes slid shut, giving into sleep. 'Don't wake up,' a voice rang in my head. And I didn't intend to.


End file.
